


Playlists of an Executant

by Survivor_at_Midnight



Series: Dance is Art in Motion [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Victuuri - Freeform, Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, Because I can't leave them sad for long, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, DJ Otabek Altin, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, JJ isn't all that bad, Lilia is lowkey Yuri's overprotective aunt, M/M, Major Illness, Mila is a good friend, New York City, Otabek has a band, Otabek is pining for a long time, Otayuri Big Bang 2019, Slow Burn, We don't like Yuri's dad, but not really?, many OCs - Freeform, songfic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 84,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Survivor_at_Midnight/pseuds/Survivor_at_Midnight
Summary: Executant /ig’zekyǝdǝnt/ noun: a person who performs music or makes a work of art or craftHis hands come up and his feet glide across the polished hardwood before he really processes the fact that he’s moving. There is no uncertainty now. He knows each move, turns it into a word, a phrase, a line from the picture he can see. He speaks without words for the world to hear.He understands.Yuri does not dance merely to dance. It is not just for choreography, or for a performance, or for extensions or lines or turnouts. It is not something he just does.Or, the High Strung AU/rewrite that absolutely no one asked for.





	1. Welcome to New York, Taylor Swift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _It's a new soundtrack I could dance to this beat, beat forevermore_   
_The lights are so bright but they never blind me, me_   
_Welcome to New York_   


_So this is Juilliard..._

Yuri Plisetsky presses his lips into a thin line. New York City was, in a word, _ much_, what with all its flashing lights and speeding cars and complicated public transportation; its top dance school was no different. His eyes roam over the numerous buildings that make up the campus, skim over the hundreds of students milling around with the occasional professor. Large duffle bags and instrument cases are abundant, and he can make out faint strains of music floating across the courtyard. Everyone is decidedly in a hurry, and decidedly older than he is.

The thought makes him glower. He must look like a middle schooler next to some of these people.

"Yurotchka."

Yuri turns to the small old man besides him, easily plucking his duffle off the other's shoulder and slinging it over his own. "I'll be alright, _ Dedushka_. You remember what Yakov said. I earned my place here."

Nikolai Plisetsky peers up at his grandson, taking in his thin 5'4" frame and chin-length blonde hair that’s half pulled back in a small tail. At 16, Yuri would be the youngest student at The Juilliard School, one of the few personally scouted and offered early admission. But Nikolai worries that his grandson would easily miss his childhood at the pace the boy has set for himself. 

Yuri had fallen in love with ballet as a child, floating across the hardwood floor of his school's auditorium stage as soon as he could run. The little blonde watched videos online whenever he could, pushing his limbs into a semblance of the forms he saw on screen. As he grew older, Nikolai had put every last bit of spare change he had to Yuri's passion. He was there for every talent show his grandson did; he cheered the loudest at every presentation the boy made. 

Apparently, Nikolai wasn't the only one keeping a close eye on his little Yurotchka.

Yakov Feltsman had offered them something just shy of a miracle after seeing Yuri perform at his high school's arts show. "I know a thoroughbred when I see one, Nikolai, and your grandson is nothing if not a prime stallion in the making," he had said. And so an audition and an acceptance later, his pride and joy was about to start his college career in the most prestigious performing arts school in the world, under one of the most renowned _ prima donnas _ in history. 

"You did, Yurotchka. Let's get you checked in and then to your flat." In the end, Nikolai is just too proud of his grandson. Yuri has accomplished too much for him not to be.

Yuri follows after his grandfather, eyes flashing over every sign and billboard, mind racing to keep up with the flurry of English that litters the campus as they flow through the river of people heading to their own destinations. Finally, he spots the words "Dance" and "Administration", and follows the arrows leading to an office. Yakov's name is on a plaque on the door so Yuri raps his knuckles against the wood. A grunt barely makes it to his ears, but he pushes open the door anyway.

Yakov looks up from whatever papers he's holding and sets down the coffee in his other hand. "Welcome, Yuri and Nikolai. I assume you're here for check in." A drawer opens, and a key is fished out that Yuri promptly pockets so that he can grab the pen and sign whatever Yakov gives him. Nikolai grabs Yuri's schedule and room assignment while Yuri dashes off his signature on a stack of papers in his messy scrawl. Yakov checks them over, glancing at the silent pair in front of him, before moving the papers into a file and back into the drawer. 

Yakov's eyes are slanted in a perpetual neutral-glare as they settle back on him. "Yuri, I'm sure you realize the novelty of your situation here. You are admitted on full scholarship two years younger than we normally accept new students. So I expect you to make every effort to ensure that our investments are not wasted. For the next two years, you will be a part of Lilia Baranovskaya's dance intensive program, after which you will join the advanced regimen should you do well. We all expect great things from you." His voice is like rain on gravel. Yuri squares his shoulders and stares back at the man with fire in his eyes.

"I will be the best. There is no other option for me." And it's the truth. He will accept no other answer but greatness. Yakov nods in subdued approval and dismisses them with a wave. 

Yuri and Nikolai weave their way back to their waiting taxi, and Nikolai shoves the paper with Yuri's new flat under the driver's nose. The man looks to Yuri for confirmation. Said blonde frowns and nods, punctuating with a sharp "just drive us to that address" in his heavily-accented English. Twenty minutes later, the disgruntled driver is helping them unload the back of his taxi before waiting again to take Nikolai back to the airport. 

Yuri fishes out the keys to the flat while juggling his duffle and leopard suitcase with his other hand. He's on the steps and about to turn the key in the lock when suddenly the key is no longer in his hand because the door has swung wide open. Shaggy black hair towers over him and brown eyes blink in surprise behind a pair of blue-rimmed glasses before curving to match the smile that grew on the Asian face. Yuri scowls again; his new flatmate seems to be the sunshine-and-rainbows type, and he can already feel it chafing at him.

"Hi! I'm Yuuri Katsuki, vice director of the Theater Arts program and currently studying for my Masters in choreography. Guess we're flatmates now, huh?" Yuri's eye twitches in annoyance before shoving past the other man, dragging his suitcase behind him and stomping into the flat because _ what the actual hell, why did Yakov stick him with one of the fucking staff?! _ He was under the assumption that he would join the student dorms. Yuri scoffs. Clearly his ‘unconventional’ status applies to his housing as well. Perfect. He can hear the other Yuuri greeting his grandfather, and growls as he searches for his bedroom to drop his bags in.

_ At least the flat is okay_, he thinks to himself. Yuri guessed that this was a flat owned by the school, since the living room is practically bare save for the sound system on the wall, with a wall of mirrors opposite the large bay windows and a barre running along the far wall. The floor is highly polished and waxed smooth; it's a miniature dance studio, Yuri assumes, for him to practice when he isn't at an actual studio. It'll do.

A bar counter separates the studio from the dining area and kitchen, and a hallway runs down to the back of the flat. Yuri glances into the first open door he sees down that hall, and finds the bathroom already half cluttered with who-knew-what. Probably the junk of the other Yuuri. The next door is a bedroom, completely devoid of any signs of life. Yuri wastes no time tossing his duffle on the mattress and shoving his suitcase in the corner. 

Yuri's grandfather appears in the doorway, toting another suitcase and his dance bag. Taking them from the older man, he gestures for him to sit on the bed and is promptly ignored as Nikolai surveys the room.

"Your flatmate seems to have a good head on his shoulders," the old man muses in Russian, to which Yuri grunts. Faintly, he can hear said flatmate tugging his last suitcase into the flat as he yanks at the zipper of his duffle.

"I'm not here to make friends, _ Dedushka_. I just want to do _ Maмa _ proud." He wants some technology at his fingertips, so he plunges a hand into the duffle. His fingers brush a picture frame as he roots around for his laptop and its charger, pulling it out instead. A hand comes down on his shoulder and squeezes gently.

"You already have, Yurotchka."

Yuri nods and softly sets the picture on the nightstand by the bed. His eye catches the time on the digital clock and he frowns to himself. This entire thing took too long. The taxi is waiting outside, and Nikolai has to be back at the airport in less than an hour. "Come on, _ Dedushka_, you'll miss your plane."

Yuri ushers his grandfather back outside and into the taxi, not before stealing one last hug from the last family that ever mattered to him and choking on 'thank you's and 'I'll miss you's and 'be safe's and 'I'll call's for another two minutes. He will not cry, he won't let his grandfather see him so weak, but the reality of separation is setting in and Yuri is loath to admit it, but he's afraid of facing this new chapter by himself, without his grandfather within arm's reach. 

It's Nikolai who gently pushes Yuri away. "Remember, Yurotchka, you have already made both this old man and your mother proud. Find some joy while you're here." He grips Yuri's arms for a second more, and then he's watching his grandfather climb back into the taxi and watching them pull away from the curb and watching them turn the corner and out of Yuri's new life here in New York. It's harder than Yuri cares to admit. 

It's the chipper voice of the other Yuuri babbling in fluent English that brings back his snappish mood.

"When is your first class tomorrow? I heard from Yakov that you'll be joining Lilia's intensive program, so I assume you'll have to be there early. I'll show you which busses and trains you can take to the campus tomorrow, but you'll have to be up early-"

Yuri growls and speeds past the other man and into the sanctuary of his new room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to my submission for the OtaYuri Big Bang 2019! A few quick things:
> 
> 1) I do have this story completed, but I'll be posting the chapters by a schedule that I have yet to set in stone. That being said, go ahead and leave comments/kudos! They really make creators happy, and I'm no different!
> 
> 2) This is a songfic mostly in the sense that all of the chapter titles are songs that I think fit the mood or theme of the chapter, or have a line or phrase that relates to the chapter, etc. You don't need to listen to the music while you read, nor will there be blocks of lyrics in the middle of the story for you to slog through. Do check out the songs and artists, though. All of them are amazing!
> 
> 3) I did tag this, but there is a referenced case of domestic abuse and character death that takes place outside of this story. I have the companion oneshot already written out that explains the need for that particular tag, but the actual events don't happen in here. If you would like to read it, you can find it though my profile, or [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231854).


	2. Titanium, The Piano Guys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of many meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I'm talking loud_   
_Not saying much_   


Yuri ponders if he is, in fact, a masochist as he presses his sweaty back to the cool hardwood floor of Lilia’s dance studio. He _ relishes _ the screaming burn infecting every muscle in his body. It feels good - its proof that he's worked hard. He makes a note to never say that out loud to anyone of import, lest they actually refer him to a therapist.

Still, having every movement feel like he's pouring vinegar over open wounds makes gathering his things a tiresome task. Lilia has another class in this dance room in ten, though, so he has to clear out _ now_. He drags his dance bag over his shoulder and trudges to the door after giving a short bow to the tall, severe woman standing in the corner who dismisses him with a curt nod and her arms crossed.

He nearly makes it to the elevator without incident before he's assaulted with the weight of another person, nearly crumpling under their mass.

"Well, kitten, you've managed to make the rest of us look like we're slacking yet again. Careful, now, or she might make you take _ pointe _ anyway." A shock of red hair falls in his line of vision, and Yuri snarls at the woman on his back.

"Screw off, Mila, and get the hell off of me." Mila ignores him and opts to grab the blonde's cheeks.

Mila Babicheva was one of the two other Russians in Lilia's advanced program, and as such she had declared that Yuri was her personal ward. Her class with Yuri had ended almost two hours ago, meaning she had probably already eaten and came back to the studio simply to annoy him before her next class.

"Come on, kitten, lighten up a little at least. Lilia expects the rest of us to match you, and not all of us are child prodigies you know," she coos as she pinches and pulls Yuri's face every which way. Said blonde knocks her hands away and stomps to the elevator, stabbing the button with his thumb.

"Go bother Georgi, you hag, or go to your contemporary class. I'm going home." Yuri doesn't wait for Mila's response, slipping into the - thankfully empty - elevator and all but running off campus, hands grabbing at his dance bag to look for his metro card. 

Katsuki had made good on his promise to show Yuri the train and bus system. Like the rest of New York, it was complicatedly simple. The public transport maps might as well have been a Gordian Knot of different colored strings, so Yuri just memorized when and where to be, when and where to get on and off. As such, his daily schedule had fallen in line with the train and bus schedule.

Normally, if he wasn't on campus he was at the flat or on the train to either place. And normally, he'd be home two hours ago. Lilia had started keeping him between her classes for private lessons after his morning ballet intensive class. As it was, he was at the studio early and getting to the flat late for the foreseeable future.

Yuri slips into the train after paying the fare, shoving his headphones in and blasting the volume on his phone as high as it would go before staring out the window. He lets the budding nightlife of the Big Apple speed past him as he idly watches the names of the stops pass him by. Only a month and a half in New York City and Yuri has since learned that pretty much anything he could possibly think of could be found between the tall skyscrapers, if not inside or under them. That included the outlandish occurrences of a parade of drag queens, a circus, an army of tour busses, and the occasional street performer.

The train pulls into his stop, and Yuri nabs his bag and hurries off. If he rushes, he can catch the early bus back to the flat, and then soak in the tub for an hour before – 

The sound of a heavy bass beat pounding through speakers cuts through the envelope of the punk rock song playing from his phone, and Yuri looks up and around, opting to stand still while peering through the river of human bodies. The beat is coming from a bit down the tiled hallway, where two speakers are set up on either side of a table. An electric violin and cello are also hooked up to the sound system being played by a girl and boy respectively, and Yuri can only assume that the two instruments are playing along to that beat that the third boy – who’s bent over some bag behind the mixing table – has created.

Yuri eyes the trio for the longest time. It’s a Thursday, his first class tomorrow is well after ten, and it’s not terribly cold for mid-October. He can spare some time.

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s expecting to hear when he yanks out the earbuds still blasting punk rock – maybe something classical, as implied by the two classical instruments – but he isn’t prepared for a borderline-dubstep remix of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. The girl and boy playing the strings are smiling and laughing, their eyes conveying the subtlest cues to the other. 

The girl laughs and skips over the wire that’s snaking around her body, calling something to her two companions before switching the song completely. The boy with the cello rolls his eyes and follows the girl’s lead, while the boy behind the turn table finally stands up and starts fiddling with buttons and switches, pressing one side of a huge set of headphones to his ear. The track scratches and changes, and suddenly Yuri is hearing the strings battle it out over a pounding drum track. His mind places the tune a moment later – it’s a Michael Jackson piece, and he can hear the chorus of ‘they don’t really care about us’ pour out of the violin. If he wasn’t watching the boy playing the cello, he would have sworn that there was an electric guitar hidden in the track.

The boy behind the turntable glances up, his eyes roving over the small crowd that has gathered, and he ghosts over Yuri the first time. But on his second pass, their eyes meet, and Yuri feels like it’s time to go because the boy’s impossibly warm amber eyes sets something off inside him that he doesn’t really care to examine right at that minute. He shoots the boy a thumbs up and a nod, before turning and following the throng of busy New Yorkers up to the bus. Those three are good, clearly they practiced often, and Yuri is appreciative of a good performance as a product of hard work.

* * *

Otabek watches the green-eyed blonde give him a thumbs up and walk away, his small form quickly being swallowed by the wave of humans heading up topside as his brow raises with the mildest traces of curiosity. There was no way that boy was any older than him – in all likelihood, the kid was younger – but those eyes were far too piercing for a normal teen. They were hard and jaded, barely covering the anger and mistrust roiling inside. Those eyes were the eyes of a soldier, the eyes of a fighter, the eyes of a conqueror. 

Otabek digs his thumb nail into the side of his index finger, a practice he’s developed to avoid biting his lip. Neither habit is good, but he has less of a chance breaking skin with his thumbnail than his teeth. But the unsettling mixture of respect and sadness that overtakes his senses at seeing those eyes is distracting. 

Rita Garriev tosses her tawny blonde hair as she roves the bow over her precious electro-violin, yelling at Otabek to pump up her volume a bit more. Said man tosses the long fringe of his undercut out of his eyes and presses his headphones to his neck. Amanet Medetov switches his stance around his cello, ash brown hair falling over inky black eyes, and starts driving out the bridge of the song as Otabek jumps Rita’s volume up to balance them out again. And just like that, the blonde is pushed into the back of Otabek’s mind for the next two hours as they play for the underground nightlife of New York. 

By the time the three are ready to pack up, the sun has long set aboveground and all three of them are covered in sweat and blisters are threatening to pop on multiple fingers. Otabek diligently breaks down his mix board and computer, carefully rolling the wires around his arm before stuffing everything into his bag. 

“Oi, Beks, what happened earlier? You’ve never missed that cue before.” Rita has perched herself on the now empty table, fingers deftly flying through the bills they’ve collected over the past five or so hours. Her Kazakh is decent if accented with English; she learned it as a secondary language after meeting Otabek and Amanet. But her teal eyes flash to Otabek’s in warning when he doesn’t answer immediately, her unspoken message far clearer than the question she just asked. 

“Nothing happened. Someone in the crowd held my attention for a bit.” Otabek has no reason to keep that from his two friends. They’re some of the only people he trusts with that type of information anyway. Besides, Rita is just as guilty of doing much the same, so she has no room to judge. He slings his single-shoulder bag over his chest and breaks the table down after the dirty blonde hops off.

Amanet, however, isn’t letting the topic go. “I expect that from Rita, not you Beks. Did you catch anything distinct about this person?” Otabek has no doubt that Amanet is fishing for details in the event that he needs to turn into a one-man CIA intelligence collector on social media for Otabek. He’s done it in the past for himself and Rita, and it surprises Otabek to realize that this is the first time the other teen has offered to do the same for him.

The Kazakh man shakes his head as he starts shoving one of the sizeable rolling speakers towards the escalator. “Blonde hair, green eyes, a book bag and duffle over one shoulder. Probably a student who does some sort of sport or exercises. He left before I could get a better look.” He hears Amanet scoff.

“Come on, Beks, that description fits like thirty percent of the New York population.” A hand falls on Otabek’s shoulder as the German pushes the other speaker. Rita trails behind them. “We’ll come back here tomorrow, same time. Maybe he’ll pass by again.”

Rita hums her disapproval of that plan. “We have a rotation for a reason. Tomorrow is Friday, and we need to set up shop on fifty-third. Stop meddling Aman.” She shoves two wads of bills at the boys, which they gratefully pocket quickly.  
“We did okay today,” she muses as they begin their slow climb up the escalator. “Two-fifty-seven and change for five hours. How close does that put you to your new parts, Beks?”

The trio emerges from the underground to the bright lights and speeding cars of southern Times Square. They move to Amanet’s silver Escalade fast; they have well over six-hundred dollars’ worth of equipment on them, and they’d rather not be caught by the wrong crowd. 

Otabek does some quick math in his head while he helps his friends load up their gear. “If tomorrow is like normal, I should be able to get them by next Wednesday.” Rita practically _ beams _ at him.

“That’s the best news I think I’ve heard all day. Put in the order today, save yourself the trouble of waiting.” Otabek feels her tugging at his bag, and by the time he swings his bag around to check what she’s fiddled with, she and Amanet are already buckled in and about to pull off. “You heard me, Otabek. Order those parts STAT. You know damn well I have no use for the money.” Rita shoots him a wink as Amanet merges into the oncoming traffic. Otabek is left shaking his head while he puts Rita’s share of the day’s earnings back at the bottom of his bag. He’ll return it to her at some later point. 

He walks two blocks further down, fishing the keys to his beloved sports-tourer motorcycle out of his back pocket. The thing is the last tangible link to home that he has, a present from his grandparents as a reward for graduating from LaGuardia High School with the highest marks in his level. He is near-obsessive with taking care of the thing, easily spending as much on it as he does rent or equipment.

Otabek checks his phone quickly – it’s nearing on nine in the evening. He doesn’t have a gig today, thank goodness, so he guns the engine and heads to his loft in Greenwich. 

The green eyes of his blonde soldier haunt him all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't happen to live in New York, go and Google a map of our metro system. There is a line that will go anywhere you want in the city. It's a mess to look at, and yet somehow we are able to read it with no problem. At least until we memorize all of the lines and timetables!  

> 
> * * *
> 
> The two referenced songs that Otabek, Rita, and Amanet are playing are [Rockelbel's Canon by the Piano Guys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LV5_xj_yuhs) and [They Don't Care About Us by 2CELLOS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-9VZZWtMfQ). Let me tell you how tired I was at hearing Canon in D, and how excited I was when I heard the Piano Guys' version of it. And if you ever thought classical instruments had to stick to boring classical songs, the 2CELLOS are a prime example of how to do popular songs with classical instruments right.


	3. First Thing's First, Pentatonix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you don't keep your feet, who knows where the world will take you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Hold up, slow down, take a breath_   
_Running and you don't know why_   
_Once you learn how to build your own track_   
_It'll take you to the finish line_   


Otabek lets his hand fly over the paper, pencil scratching notes onto the staff for a minute before he swings around to his mix board, tapping out the new notes on the keys. His laptop is cued up to repeat the track, and he’s hoping that some new inspiration will jump at him from in between the looping half-finished music. The new part is okay, not his best by far, but with a bit more work it’ll come around. Maybe if he-

His phone goes off on the bench, bouncing across the table to catch his attention. It’s his last warning – if he doesn’t stop now he’ll be late meeting Rita and Amanet for their slot. And he’s not in the mood to deal with an angry Rita.

Otabek grabs the damn thing and silences the alarm, shoving it in the back pocket of his jeans before tugging off his headphones and tossing them on the table. He takes a moment to huff an annoyed breath, eyes slipping closed in resignation. Even with all the free time not being in school and working evening and night gigs has left him, it’s like he can get nothing done. This piece has been bugging him for the past week and a half, still no closer to completion now than it was then.

Viridian orbs and spun gold flit through his mind’s eye and Otabek digs his thumbnail into his finger. 

_ The blonde. _

The blonde with the eyes of a soldier. 

It’s been two weeks to the day since he first saw the boy, and has since only seen him in passing – only leaving the Times Square-42nd street subway, where they play on Mondays and Thursdays. He always does the same routine, and Otabek pictures the youth as he takes up residence a few yards away from them, leaning against the tiled wall and draping his earbuds over a slender hand. The one eye that isn’t obscured by a curtain of golden hair is always half-closed, not looking at them but at the phone he’s always toying with – still, Otabek couldn’t be more certain that the boy is paying attention to their sets. He stays there for exactly fifteen minutes, every day, before finally locking eyes with Otabek and nodding once before disappearing topside.

Honestly, as much as the blonde rouses his interest, the distraction the boy is becoming is vexing. He was supposed to have this piece done last Friday, and Otabek is finding himself wondering all sorts of nonsense about the blonde and his history instead of _ working_.

A hand drags through his undercut as he pries himself away from his workstation and gets ready to leave. His mix board and computer are shoved into his bag as he chews on a protein bar that he snatched from his pantry. Keys in hand, he grabs his bag and his leather jacket before dashing out the door of his loft. 

He pulls his bike up behind Amanet’s car with only ten minutes to set up. Thankfully, Rita and Amanet have already set up the speakers and his table, and are in the process of taping down wires to the concrete to avoid people tripping over them. Rita points him to a plastic bag sitting on the table, and Otabek peeks inside to see a sandwich and a bottle of water from some deli. He shoots the dirty blonde a grateful glance before shrugging off his bag and taking a bite out of the BLT.

He’s in the middle of sound checking Aman’s loop pedal when the final member of their crew shows up. Jeans-Jacques Leroy may be one of the most annoyingly boisterous and prideful assholes Otabek has ever met in his nineteen years of living, but the man is a god on a keyboard and has a decent voice to boot. The Canadian greets them with his signature JJ-Style pose, dropping his keyboard stand off-center of Otabek’s table. Rita whirls on him in a huff.

“Leroy, you were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago! What the actual hell!” Otabek wisely chooses to keep his mouth shut – he only appeared like five minutes ago, he can’t say shit – and finishes Aman’s sound check with a nod to the German. JJ is laughing and explaining that his girlfriend needed something-or-the-other and that’s why he was late, and Rita scowls and kicks the taller man in the shin. Said man takes it in stride, setting up his keyboard in no time and letting Otabek balance the keys with the two strings.

The brunette takes the final two minutes to survey the area around him. The early afternoon skies are clear, no sign of rain, and there are hundreds of people milling around. They’re set up on a restaurant street, using the constant stream of patrons to draw attention. He can see why Rita wanted to try playing over here; no cars are allowed on this street, turning the asphalt into an open-air terrace for people to stop and rest. A small park is down the block. Already the milling crowd around their little area is over fifty people, and they still had five hours to work.

A glance at his watch tells him it’s time to start. His deft fingers fly over his laptop, pulling up his sequencing board and opening a number of files. A few clicks later, and he has a beat running. JJ shoots him a grin and plays a light melody to match the warm afternoon, with Aman adding his bass line a second later. Rita is last, happily bouncing around over the music with her own melody. 

Otabek slides his headphones on, one ear free to hear the reverb of their music through open air. His job is one of the most complex of their little group; on top of setting up the rhythm for their songs, he needs to keep the volume of his three counterparts balanced and fill in with some of his own work when needed. He finds that working with live instruments and voices is indefinitely harder than mixing finished tracks. At least those tracks are predictable.

His eyes glance over Rita. She’s smiling and laughing like an idiot, traipsing across the small area they have claim over and engaging the crowd. They love her, and she knows it, so she eggs them on a little more, teases them with her quick feet and fleet refrain and jubilant smile, and all but dares them to ask for more.

She’s in _ that _ mood. Otabek sighs and keeps an eye on her. She’s liable to switch songs at the oddest moments, leaving the rest of them to metaphorically chase after her. She’s the literal embodiment of unpredictable when she’s like this.

It hasn’t even been two hours since they started when a smattering of what he thinks is Russian cuts through the organized cacophony around him, and gold and green stumble into his vision. 

_ Damnit, of all the times… _

The soldier is here, and Otabek’s thumb twitches. The blond really is haunting him.

* * *

Yuri wants to kick his stupid phone into a friggin’ sewer. He’s considering just putting all of his social media on private for a day or ten, because _ goddamnit _ it’s his first day off in weeks, he doesn’t want to deal with Mila or Yakov or Lilia or any of his crazy stalkers from Russia right now. Instead, he jams the cause of his headaches into his hoodie’s pocket and looks around.

The street-turned-plaza is ringed by restaurants and a deli or two and filled with tables and chairs under umbrellas despite the late-October chill. It’s like New York doesn’t care that winter is on its doorstep. The smell of a hundred different foods is nearly overwhelming, and he contemplates buying lunch and relaxing for an hour before heading home. He has to get off his feet after shopping around. 

There’s music coming from somewhere to his left but fatigue and hunger win out over his curiosity. He grabs a coffee and bread roll from the nearest deli before scanning the plaza for the source of the music.

He suddenly finds himself drowning in amber. Again.

It’s the DJ-cellist-violinist trio, only now they’re the DJ-cellist-violinist-pianist quad. The newcomer has an undercut like the DJ, but that’s where the similarities end. Where the DJ and cellist are subdued and steady, the pianist and violinist are wild and reckless. In fact, the blonde violinist is dancing around, flitting through the crowd as though she wasn’t playing at a mile a minute. The pianist is nearly jumping in his place behind a keyboard. 

This happy disease is apparently contagious, because a look and a word from the dirty blonde coaxes a laugh out of the cellist that leaves an easy smile across his features. The entire scene is so sappy it almost makes Yuri gag on his caffeine fix.

But the DJ is still staring at him with amber eyes and a stoic expression.

Yuri shakes himself and moves to one of the few empty tables at the edge of the plaza, dropping into the seat heavily. _ What the hell are they doing here? _ Yuri presses his lips together, wondering if they play at different places when they aren’t down in his subway station. It’s only just past two in the afternoon. _ How long will they play? _

He risks a glance at the DJ again. He’s busy tweaking the sound with his laptop and sound board, eyes on his band mates and not on Yuri. He’s not entirely sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

The DJ isn’t that tall, about the same height as the blonde violinist, and from what Yuri can see fairly built under that black leather jacket. A light tan sets off dark clothes, and Yuri watches as he flicks his head to toss back some of the fringe from his undercut that falls over his eyes. The DJ tugs quickly on his fingerless leather gloves as his digits dance over keys and buttons and slider bars – the girl seems to be putting them all through their paces as she raves around like a maniac. Why any of them are letting her do that is beyond Yuri. He’s listened to enough pieces to know when the music is cohesive. This piece _ could _ have been cohesive, if the girl – and even the pianist, a little bit – got their shit together. But the cellist and DJ are playing along as if this is a daily occurrence. And maybe for them, it is. 

That’s when the DJ glances up again.

By the time Yuri realizes he’s been staring, the DJ is saying something to the cellist and stepping out from behind his sanctuary. Yuri scowls to himself; he fucking _ hates _ when people do that to him, stare until discomfort melts into anger, and he can’t imagine that the DJ appreciates it much more. So he pulls out his phone and opens a game to keep him from making more of an ass out of himself than he already has.

A pair of black boots appears in front of him some time later, and a fresh coffee is placed on the table next to his now cold one. “May I join you?” asks a deep and definitely accented voice.

It’s the DJ.

Yuri glances up from his phone for a split second, biting his tongue as he shrugs and nods. The DJ slides into the chair across from him, sipping at his own drink. He considers Yuri a moment, before turning to look back at his bandmates. Yuri follows his gaze, noting that the cellist has temporarily taken over the DJ table while the pianist and violinist have their fun.

“Rita’s going off the deep end again, and she’s dragging JJ along with her, so I’m letting them burn some of their energy off.” It’s a pathetic attempt at introductions. Yuri plays along anyway.

“Rather selfish of her, running away with the music and dragging the rest of you along.” Impressive, yes – it speaks highly of the rest of them, keeping up with her – but Yuri imagines it’s still annoying as fuck. There’s a reason you _ practice _ these types of things, after all. Why bother practicing if you aren’t going to perform what you practiced? Yuri grabs the new coffee and takes a sip. Cream and sugar, same as how he normally orders it, Yuri notes with surprise.

The DJ quirks a corner of his mouth in what Yuri guesses is amusement. “A little. No real harm done in the end, though. JJ, Aman, and I can handle it.”

“Hmph.”

An eyebrow quirks in curiosity. “You think differently?”

Yuri struggles to keep the frown off his face as he waves his free hand impatiently at the tawny blonde. “She’s all over the fucking place. No focus whatsoever. If the three of you weren’t as good as you are, would you be able to keep up with her? In the end, the entire production suffers because she lets herself get carried away.”

And Yuri finds a curious mixture of horror, embarrassment, and disgust twisting its way down his throat. Horror because did he really just _ insult _ the DJ’s friend within five minutes of speaking to him; embarrassment because did he really just _ compliment _ the guy that he just met; and disgust because is he _ really _ over-analyzing his words to this man? 

The DJ doesn’t seem to care about any of Yuri’s inner turmoil, though. He leans his elbow on the table, head resting in the palm of his propped hand. When he next speaks, his voice is still calm –and even a bit placating – to Yuri’s chagrin. “Keeping up with her is a challenge at times. But I find that on occasion her spontaneity improves rather than hinders our performances.”

Yuri tries to swallow that pill, rolling it around and examining it from every angle he can, and finds it’s far too cumbersome for him to deal with. “Hate to break it to you, but that rarely works in a professional setting. If I tried something like that, my instructor would drop me like hot coals.” And the odd cocktail of emotion is back, with an extra shot of horror and a complimentary cherry in the form of mortification. He _ needs _ to stop putting his foot in his mouth. If he keeps this up, the DJ is liable to think that he’s a complete asshole, if he doesn’t already. In retrospect, Yuri figures that he _ is _ a complete asshole to most people, but his companion certainly doesn’t need to know that.

He hears a small hum of intrigue. Apparently the man is immune to Yuri’s knife of a tongue. “Instructor?”

Yuri curses himself in his head. He didn’t mean to let that slip out. The young man in front of him is the epitome of cool (hello, a leather-wearing, undercut DJ? Yuri can’t think of many things cooler than that) and he doesn’t want to drive him away (because the vast majority of the human population probably won’t appreciate the hard work and sharp and elegant aesthetic that ballet embodies). He settles with a non-committal hum and turns back to his phone, listening to the near-crazed violin run through what sounded like three octaves in the span of seconds. The DJ’s friends are playing what sounds like a near-impossible version of the _ Mission Impossible _ theme. Hah.

“I noticed you always have a book bag and a duffle when we play Times Square and forty-second,” the other man prods. Damn, he’s not letting the topic go. Yuri sends the older man a perfunctory look of disdain, which is just as easily ignored. Yuri huffs and rolls his eyes as he turns back to his phone, scrolling without really seeing what’s on his Twitter feed.

“I’m a ballet student at Juilliard. My instructor is a hardass,” he mumbles. Sneaking a glance at the DJ through his hair, he’s not prepared for the recognition and wistfulness that overtakes the man’s features for a second before it’s all smoothed over by that easy unperturbed face again.

“I see. Yet your instructor hasn’t dropped you so far, so I assume that you’re holding up to their standards.” Yuri doesn’t know what to make of the respect he hears in the other man’s voice, and chooses to ignore it. 

“I’m nowhere near where I need to be. I must meet their expectations.” It’s the simplest and most truthful answer he’s given in this entire conversation, yet the man looks at him as though his reply confuses the hell out of him. He opens his mouth to say something, but then a phone that isn’t Yuri’s is buzzing, and the man merely sighs instead and gets up from the table, silencing the alarm on his sleek matte black phone.

“That’s the end of my break. It was nice speaking with you.” The man gives Yuri a small wave before returning to his DJ position, chasing the cellist out of his spot while slinging his headphones over his head. The violinist and pianist laugh at something, to which the DJ just shakes his head and begins playing with his computer once more, effectively cutting off any further conversation between them as he starts a new song.

Yuri glances at his own phone, nearly choking on his new coffee when he sees that it’s nearly four in the afternoon. He grimaces when he realizes that Katsuki is going to bitch at him for not being home sooner. He’s certain the Theater Arts vice director is spying for Yakov; whenever he’s not back at the flat on his normal schedule it’s like Yakov _ knows_. And just to drive home that point, Yuri’s instructors work him to the bone – all of them – probably under Yakov’s orders. He slams the rest of his drink back, picking up the two cups when he realizes the DJ left his own cup there too. 

If it were anyone else, Yuri would be spitfire-pissed. He’s not some stranger’s maid, cleaning up after them, for fuck’s sake. But the normal anger that would have him seeing red is strangely absent, because there’s a napkin with the DJ’s name and number held down by that cup, and Yuri decides to let it slide. Just this once.

He picks up the napkin and smoothes it out on the table, eyes flitting over the slanted lines of a fine-point marker creating a name and nine digits.

_ Otabek Altin_.

* * *

Otabek is in the middle of merging two tracks when the blinking light of his phone catches his attention. It takes him a second to turn the thing on and scan the new message once he successfully switches into the new track.

> _[Received 4:19pm]: Next time, clean up your own mess. –Yuri Plisetsky_

Otabek reads the notification quickly, eyes shooting up from his phone to scan for the blonde. He’s still at their table at the back of the plaza, but it’s been cleared of their cups. The blonde gives him a two-fingered salute, a napkin haphazardly folded between the two slender digits, before turning and walking away.

Otabek allows himself a grin. That boy is something else.

_ Yuri Plisetsky_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this may or may not actually happen, I'm taking the creative liberty to mess with the streets of New York. It's okay, It's all good. Just assume that all of these places do exist, but that I messed with the actual addresses. If I do accidentally put down a real address, I didn't mean to and I apologize.
> 
> If you didn't catch it, the version of the Mission Impossible theme that Otabek and Co. play is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDsfou6UfjU), by Lindsey Sterling and The Piano Guys. If it wasn't obvious, Rita is very much like Lindsey!


	4. Bring Me to Life, Evanescence/Little Talks, Kurt Hugo Schneider & Kevin Olusola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri is a furious little blighter and Otabek is taking it all in stride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _How can you see into my eyes like open doors?_   
_Leading you down, into my core_   
_Where I've become so numb_   


Yuri scowls to himself when Lilia barks at him, seeing his glare reflected in the wall of mirrors behind the irate woman.

“You are not embodying anything but an angry stray cat, Yuri! That side of you must be cast aside when the music starts. You must embrace the ethereal elegance of the fae. I do not want to see _ you _ when you dance this piece; I want to see magic so enchanting one cannot think it to be real.” Lilia’s countenance is severe, but his own annoyance is far greater than her own, he’s sure. 

He’s run this stupid program over twenty times today alone, and not once has Lilia been satisfied. But for the life of him, he doesn’t know what’s wrong. His form is perfect, even the crabby old woman can attest to that. She hasn’t had to correct him on technique or sequencing for nigh on a week now. But every day is the same – she’s forever displeased with something or the other that isn’t the height of his _ arabesque _ or the curve of his extended fingers. 

Yuri bites his tongue, swallowing the snarky sass that’s fighting to get out. He’ll do himself no favors if he starts arguing with the _ prima donna_.

Lilia glares down her nose at him. “Do you understand what I’m telling you to do?” 

Not really, and he tells her as much; it’s like she can smell when he lies, so he’s long since given up trying. He’s doing all the steps correctly, perfectly in sync with the music, but apparently something is still lacking, and he doesn’t know what it is. Lilia continues to stare at him in clear disapproval before turning away and shutting down the music. 

“We are done for today. You may leave. You are excused from the rest of your classes as well; I will clear it with Yakov. I expect you to come in tomorrow with a better understanding of my request.” She’s packing up her bag, leaving Yuri gaping at her back. They’re done? How? Her next class isn’t for another hour, they can work some more. She’s _ never _ let him off early before. And she can’t tell him to _ not go to his other classes_. He needs to go to yoga and strength training, and he has homework to turn in for that stupid literature class Yakov forced him to enroll in. 

A block of ice settles in his stomach. Is Lilia giving up on him? Will she cut him from the program? He can’t be dropped now. He has too much to accomplish! He needs to keep going, or _ what’s the point _ of working so fucking hard all of these years?

He can’t see through his panic as his lips fall open with an apology for some transgression he doesn’t know he’s committed. He doesn’t know how just yet, but he’ll do _ anything _ for Lilia to keep working with him.

Her sharp eyes slide to him again, and Yuri is silenced instantly as he hastily bows to her before practically running out of the studio. He knows that his face is red from the rebuke and dismissal; he can feel the warmth creeping down his neck. Yuri’s praying to every power that might be listening that he won’t run into anyone who knows him, because right now he is not in the mood. He’s changed in a matter of minutes, fishing out his phone from the depths of his bag as he bolts for the elevator. 

Otabek’s last text from this morning greets him when he turns on the screen.

> _How long do you practice, then?_

Despite his lackluster training today, Yuri grins to himself. Otabek Altin is by far the most interesting part of his day. Since that day at the plaza on 53rd, the two of them have been talking like crazy. The twenty-year-old is quiet, hiding many secrets from all but those he chooses to reveal them to. Yuri’s more than a little proud to say that he’s cajoled Otabek into talking about himself in their three weeks’ worth of texts and stolen subway conversations between his classes and the other’s performances. He’s not officially enrolled in a college, but he works at a club or two as a legitimate DJ on the payroll, earning extra on the side as a street player with Rita the violinist, Amanet the cellist, and Jean-Jacques the pianist. Otabek is from Kazakhstan, and Yuri is elated to discover that he knows a good bit of Russian. And his birthday has just past, and Yuri teases him relentlessly about being an old man.

Yuri, in turn, is surprised to learn that he actually _ enjoys _ talking to Otabek. The man is an avid listener, and seems genuinely curious to get to know Yuri. He’s already regaled the other with his love of ballet and how he got into Juilliard, earning him an impressed nod. He’s gone on quite a few rants about his spying flatmate and his impossible-to-impress instructors and insufferable ballet cohorts, all of them unintentional (because Yuri won’t admit it out loud, but he’s more than a bit afraid that he’s annoying Otabek with all of his bitching), but Otabek takes them all in stride and works to calm the blonde down every time without fail. The man is always cool-headed, maybe that’s why he hasn’t driven him away yet.

Yuri opens up their chat and shoots him a reply.

> _Normally about 8ish hours a day._
> 
> _Lilia let me out early today, though._

The response that comes is surprising – Otabek texts back quickly.

> _She never does that. You want a ride? I’m free until 7._

Yuri raises an eyebrow. He’s never seen what Otabek drives. He’s still mostly seeing the Kazakh man in the Times Square-42nd subway on Mondays and Thursdays, and by the time he’s out of class they’re already set up and in the middle of playing. He can never stay around to the end of their set, because Katsuki will get him killed. 

Wait. Otabek’s not already playing somewhere? That’s news to Yuri. Whenever he texts Otabek in the afternoon, he just assumes that he’s working.

> _What’s happening at 7? _
> 
> _Thought you’d be playing somewhere already._

Another fast reply comes in.

> _No, today’s one of my easier days. I have a DJ gig then._

Ah. So Otabek will be playing at one of the clubs tonight. His slightly improved mood begins to backtrack as he realizes that he’ll be left to his own devices for the remainder of the evening, since Lilia has banned him from the studio for the rest of the day.

He must have stared off into space for too long. His phone buzzes. 

> _Yuri?_

The blonde bites his lip. He wants to skip to tomorrow, so he can get back to forgetting everything but extensions and turnouts and the hardwood floor of the studio.

> _Yeah, a ride would be nice. _
> 
> _Thanks._

A distraction and sleep is what he needs, desperately, and preferably in that order. Anything that can kill the long hours between now and when he can next step foot into the studio.

The next reply comes a second later.

> _Be there in fifteen._

* * *

Otabek leans on his bike, phone in hand as he waits outside Juilliard’s main entrance for Yuri. He might not have known the younger boy for very long, but his most recent texts didn’t sound quite like him. The Yuri that Otabek knows would have made some smartass comment about taking him out or something, and he definitely wouldn’t have said thanks. Yuri is abrasive and uncouth and full of sarcasm and sass and lacking any kind of mental filter, and that’s what makes him interesting. He’s one of the prickliest people Otabek has ever met, and it’s refreshing.

The shock of blonde hair that comes traipsing out the campus’s main exit is half pulled back into a tail, green eyes scanning the block for him. Otabek just waits patiently, suppressing a grin when Yuri finally notices him. The younger boy jogs up, eyes ogling the motorbike behind him.

“Hey Yuri. How was practice?” Otabek shouldn’t take such amusement from the smaller flustered boy. He tosses Yuri a helmet while he stashes the surprisingly heavy duffle away in the rear storage compartment.

The blonde seems to physically shake himself out of his stupor before a grimace takes over. “Aggravating as fuck. Lilia seems determined to tell me that I’m doing something wrong and deliberately not telling me what it is.” Otabek checks the helmet that Yuri hastily fastens over his head, pulling on a few straps to secure it before putting on his own.

“How so?”

Yuri huffs as he crosses his arms. “She’s always hounding me about not ‘feeling the part’ or whatever.” He kicks his leopard-print sneakers at the curb. “S’not like I’m not doing the fucking moves right. But she’s never happy with it.” Yuri’s staring up at one of the campus buildings, at where Otabek assumes the dance studio is.

Otabek inclines his head the tiniest bit. He knows next to nothing about dancing, other than he’s horrible at it and Yuri’s damn well a genius. But he thinks he understands this. “You’ll figure it out eventually,” is all he says as he swings a leg over his bike. “Climb on.”

Yuri eyes the gunmetal-and-black bike in trepidation. “How the hell am I supposed to trust you on this thing?” Otabek smirks and revvs the engine, just to mess with the blonde.

“I’ve been driving _ this thing _ for three years, maintained it myself, and I’ve been forced to drag my bandmates around on it across the city more times than I can count.”

Yuri sticks his tongue out at him before cautiously climbing on behind Otabek. He guides Yuri’s hands to the grip straps in front of him, making sure that the younger boy is holding on tight before kicking up the stand and merging into the traffic. He’s conscious of how stiff the boy is, feeling him relax gradually as he easily weaves between cars. 

Yuri is surprisingly quiet as they breeze through the city. Otabek guesses that the blonde spends most if not all of his time in his dorm, on campus, or on the way to either place, so this must be a novel trip for him. It occurs to him that Yuri must not have eaten yet, since his instructor just kicked him out of class. He pulls up in front of a Starbucks and parks the bike, gesturing for Yuri to get off.

“Come on, I haven’t eaten anything yet.” It’s not even a lie, he hasn’t eaten since five that morning, but the excuse masks his concern for the Russian. Said Russian raises an eyebrow at him before climbing off as well, keeping his helmet tucked under his arm. Otabek orders them lunch while his companion drops into a booth at the back of the café and listlessly twirls his phone around. The older man frowns to himself. Yuri is normally attached to his social media as though it were his lifeline. But the blonde hasn’t unlocked his phone even once.

Otabek takes their order to their table, sliding Yuri’s sandwich to him. Yuri pays it no mind, eyes tracing the grain of the oak table. He nudges the blonde. “Eat, Yuri, and then tell me what’s wrong.”

It takes another five minutes of prodding before Otabek is satisfied with Yuri’s almost-finished meal. But the boy is still somber, a stark contrast from the talkative male he’s used to. Yuri isn’t looking at him when he speaks, and his voice is far too quiet for Otabek’s liking.

“I don’t want Lilia to drop me from the program.”

Ah, so that’s the issue. “Yuri, why do you think she’s going to drop you?”

A slim hand grabs at blonde hair and yanks bitterly. “I can’t seem to get the fucking piece right! She and I both know that I have all the elements memorized. I could damn well do the dance in my sleep! But she keeps saying something is wrong! If I can’t fix it, she’ll think that it was a waste of time taking me on. She’ll go looking for someone better to train, and I’ll-“ Yuri pales and suddenly snaps his mouth shut, glaring at Otabek before storming out of the café. 

Otabek sighs and follows his friend out of the restaurant after tossing their garbage. Yuri is fuming in front of the bike, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. This is the first time his anger has been directed at Otabek, and he’s not too sure how to handle it. So Otabek decides to distract Yuri instead.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to my place for a bit. You probably don’t want to see your flatmate right now.” He puts back on his helmet, letting the engine roar to life under them once the other boy gets on behind him. 

His loft is downtown, in Greenwich. Not very far, only a handful of miles, but Manhattan is always crowded with hundreds of cars and the like, making the trip longer than expected. After half an hour (and a few extra detours for the blonde’s sake) Otabek pulls up to his building. He parks the bike and fishes Yuri’s duffle out from the storage compartment, ushering its owner up to his fourth-floor loft.

“Make yourself at home,” he tells Yuri as he places the duffle beside the couch. His leather jacket is hung by the door and then he’s off to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he comes back, Yuri is sprawled on his couch, shoes tossed haphazardly by the door, and he’s staring up at the ceiling.

“You have this entire place to yourself?” Yuri’s eyes fall on Otabek, and he nods before dropping into the rolling swivel chair by his work bench.

“Yeah. I lucked out with this place; the rent is insanely cheap for a loft in the city. The owner and neighbors are pretty nice as well, what with letting me keep my bike and music in here.” Mostly because he goes out of his way to make sure that no one will be able to make a noise complaint. Every free inch of wall space is covered with foam to muffle the sound of his music. He’s on more than one occasion ended up working through the night and into the next morning, but so far the foam has done its job.

Otabek watches Yuri’s eyes travel around the room – the small kitchen, the bookshelf that hides his bed from view of the tv and couch, the small alcove that houses his closet and bathroom, and the large open area meant for jam sessions with his band – before landing on the work bench behind him. The blonde picks himself up off of the couch and glides over to stand besides Otabek. The anger from the café seems to have left, so Otabek takes a risk and hopes it will pay off.

He swings around in his chair, finding his laptop still open from when he left earlier, and opens a clean sequencer sheet. “Give me the name of a piece you’ve danced to before,” he requests as he reaches for his headphones and checks that the aux line to the speakers is plugged in. 

“…Why?” He can feel Yuri’s questioning gaze on him, but he refuses to acknowledge it when he turns back around. Raising a brow, he waits the younger male out. “Fine, whatever. Vivaldi’s _ Concerto for Two Cellos_.”

Otabek hums in response and pulls up the song on his sequencer, dropping it on a track and playing through it at lightning speed to familiarize himself with the piece. Then he’s flying across the mix board, creating a simple and easy beat. Next is the keyboard, same make and model as JJ’s and outfitted with nearly 5,000 different settings. He plays with some string settings before adding a second melody to the original piece; then it’s back to the computer to add a key change and a heavier bass line. 

In less than half an hour he has revamped the tired old piece into something new. It’s far from anything he’d consider complete, but hopefully it will serve his purpose. Yuri is still standing beside him, eyes bugged out wide from shock. 

“Otabek, how the hell…” Yuri trails off in amazement and Otabek chuckles to himself. It’s amusing to see that no matter how many times Yuri has seen him play with music live, he’s still as impressed as the first time.

“I’ve had years to practice this type of impromptu stuff, Yuri.” He reaches over and pulls up one of the many stools and chairs that are pushed into the corners of his loft. Yuri needs no encouragement to sit next to the DJ, eyes sparkling like jade as Otabek saves the work-in-progress and opens another clean sheet. Otabek hands Yuri a second pair of headphones and grasps for a list of music he’s been meaning to work on. He could use some new material for tonight, anyway. Oddly enough, he’s feeling inspired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I don't like walking around this old and empty house_   
_So hold my hand, I'll walk with you my dear_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> [Cello-beatboxing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cWj4fQBW8U) has to be one of the best combinations of musical styles I have ever heard of. And Kurt always has these crazy ways to make music that go beyond just coke bottles. Like playing a bicycle, or M&Ms. I'm not kidding. Oh, and if you want to check out the version of _Concerto for Two Cellos_, it's [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09RUuTAM2H0).


	5. Pretty Hurts, Beyoncé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a special brand of courage to let someone see behind the mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Plastic smiles and denial can only take you so far_   
_Then you break when the fake façade leaves you in the dark_   


"Oi, Katsudon! I’m going out after class, don’t wait up for me!” Yuri shouts behind him before slamming the door closed. He hears a muffled ‘Alright! Wait, when are you-’ as his key turns in the lock, but that’s as far as Yuri cares to listen.

The blonde practically sprints over to the bus stop, his bag thudding against his back and duffle swinging besides him. The sky is still dark; it’s barely past five in the morning, and Lilia’s intensive starts at 7. He wants to get to the studio early today, because Otabek agreed to come and watch his piece and help him. Not that Yuri is ungrateful to the _prima_ _donna_ – he is, more than he can adequately describe – but after yesterday’s early dismissal, he’s desperate to get back in his instructor’s good graces. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes will help him identify what he’s doing wrong – even if Otabek swears he knows nothing about ballet, Yuri is confident that he knows enough about ballet for the both of them.

Otabek had let Yuri stay over for a number of hours yesterday, and the blonde had been entranced with watching his new friend create mixes. He’s never put much thought into how music was made, since all he had to do was move in time to it. But a number of Otabek’s mixes were mashups that Yuri had never even considered before, or songs that he was certain would clash horribly until the DJ folded them together. Others still were revamps of old or over-played songs that gave them a second life. After hearing  _ Concerto for Two Cellos _ well over a thousand times in the space of a month, he was certain that he never wanted to hear it again; Otabek’s version – affectionately named  _ Code Name Vivaldi _ – easily made him reevaluate his distaste to the number. 

Otabek isn’t the habitually expressive type, Yuri’s noted in the past. The older man is taciturn and somber most of the time, speaking only when he deems it necessary to speak and choosing his words carefully – unlike Yuri, who says whatever comes to mind without running his thoughts through the mental filter he seems to lack. But a change comes over the Kazakh when he’s playing with music. More often than not, Yuri would see a smile creeping over normally stoic features. When he plays with his band mates, Yuri can see pleasure simmering behind amber eyes when Otabek thinks he isn’t looking. And he can hear it in the music the older male makes. Every mix is full of emotion, and every performance is an attempt at a masterpiece – even if Rita and JJ spin off on tangents, Yuri can tell that Otabek enjoys what he does.

By the time Otabek had to get ready to leave, Yuri had all but demanded that the older man create a piece for him for his promotion in a year and a half. Otabek had agreed as he dropped Yuri off at home (Yuri may or may not have bugged him over the entire ride back to his flat). And in order to get a better handle on what type of music to make for the smaller teen, he had asked to watch Yuri dance. Which is why Yuri is now heading to school at five-fucking-thirty in the morning. 

Honestly. The things Yuri does for his friend.

Yuri hears a motorcycle roaring up behind him, headlights casting long shadows ahead of him, and he stops short and turns to see Otabek pulling up beside him. He scoffs and rolls his eyes at the older man; of course the show-off was going to pick him up. It’s surprising that he managed to catch Yuri before he got on the bus, though.

Otabek offers him half a smile and tosses his second helmet at him. “I used to take public transport before I got the bike. I still have all the timetables memorized.”

Yuri snorts, watching his breath mist up in front of him as he puts the helmet on. “You would, you nerd.” He climbs on the back of the bike anyway after stashing his duffle. He prefers a free motorcycle ride to spending two-seventy-five to get to school anyway, even if it’s getting a bit cold. He’s certain that once the snows start coming, Otabek will be taking public transport with along with him anyway.

Otabek has his own DJ bag with him, which Yuri is sure has his laptop and mix board and a few USB sticks and a nest of wires. His friend is watching his intensive, then he’s playing with Rita and JJ at some café somewhere until five, and  _ then _ he’s driving all the way back to Juilliard to pick Yuri up for his DJ gig. At the blonde’s insistence, naturally.

Five-thirty traffic in Manhattan isn’t  _ quite _ as bad as seven or eight a.m. traffic, so they make good time and pull up in front of the school minutes to six. Yuri flashes his student ID at the garage security guard, and Otabek tucks his precious bike in a corner. Then Yuri leads the older man through the campus and up to the dance studio. After instructing the other to leave his shoes by the door (Lilia might allow guests from time to time, but she’ll  _ murder _ him if he lets street shoes touch the beautiful polished floor), he runs to the locker room to change. 

A pair of leggings, ballet flats, and a tank top later, Yuri’s fallen into the focus he reserves for the dance studio. By the time he emerges while finger-combing his hair back, Otabek has already pulled out his laptop and plugged it into the wall, and is toying around with something. “What do you want me to dance to?”

The older man glances up quickly before turning back to his computer with a shrug. “Anything you can think of. Old pieces, if you want, or something you make up on the spot.” Otabek keeps his eyes glued to his computer screen, tapping away at the keys as Yuri frowns down at him. He doesn’t freestyle; there are far too many opportunities to make a mistake if he creates something on the fly. He pulls out his phone and opens up his music, searching the hundreds of files for the piece he’s working on with Lilia.

“I guess I can show you the dance I’m apparently having trouble with,” he murmurs as he hooks up his phone to the speakers before jogging to the center of the room. He hasn’t warmed up yet, and he’ll probably regret it sooner or later, but right now he’s a bit too nervous to care. When the music starts, a longing, watchful, haunting melody, all he focuses on is the placement of each limb and the counts he’s committed to memory and the space he has to utilize and the lines he has to reach. He’s attentive to each movement, executing them all with care, and all too aware of Otabek’s eyes searing into his skin. 

He’s sweating lightly when he’s done, and looks over to Otabek’s form still folded over his laptop. Said man hasn’t looked away from him, his expression slightly drawn into a frown that Yuri would have missed if he hadn’t known any better. It’s not the look of approval Yuri was hoping for, and it floods his being with a roiling mixture of annoyance and disappointment. “Well?”

Otabek just stares at him for a while, scrutinizing something that Yuri isn’t privy to. “Can you dance to another piece? An older one this time, one that you like, if you don’t mind.” His voice is judiciously neutral. It does nothing to quiet Yuri’s ire. So he marches over to his phone and selects another song at random from a year or two ago, and cues it up.

He’s even more careful with his movements this time, aiming for perfection. One swift glance at Otabek tells him that he’s far from it.

Suddenly the music changes and Yuri stumbles out of the  _ promenade _ that he’s in the middle of, falling out of form and landing gracelessly on the floor. He glares at Otabek. “What the hell?” he snarls at his friend. That type of meddling can cause an injury!

Otabek’s head is back in his computer, and Yuri realizes he’s unplugged his phone and hooked up his laptop to the speakers, and is playing with one of the hundreds of half-finished tracks he has stocked up. Amber eyes look up at Yuri. “Don’t stop. Keep dancing.” 

* * *

Yuri gapes at him. 

Otabek knows next to nothing about dancing in general, even less about ballet and all of its technical nuances, but he has an eye for passion. And although Yuri looks – dare he say it – beautiful, the boy moves like a puppet. He’s elegant and graceful and poised, but there’s no feeling to his movements. Yuri’s body is dancing, but his heart is shut away. 

It’s those deadened eyes. Those eyes don’t match the wistful and mysterious nature of the music. Otabek can hear subdued hope and inner peace and restrained longing in the first song, but Yuri shows none of it in his dance. That’s probably what Lilia means when she says that Yuri isn’t feeling the music. Yuri looks catatonic at best, downright angry at worst. His hunger to achieve perfection is becoming the roadblock that is keeping him from it.

Otabek asks Yuri to dance another piece, one that he enjoys, in hopes that it’s just the new dance that the blonde is having trouble personifying. But it’s the same with the old song as well. The younger teen’s face is stonewalled determination, even though the lifts in the music tell the story of a joyful return home. 

Otabek is mulling a rather large stack of new facts and questions over in his head. Is it at all possible that Yuri only dances to sequences choreographed by someone else? Has he never tried to dance to something he likes? Are the steps really the only thing on his mind? Does he really feel nothing for the art he’s creating? Of all that he’s pondering, it’s the possibility of a disconnection between Yuri and his dance that’s the most concerning.

Otabek can’t imagine not being able to connect to the music he makes; people (Yuri included) love his work because he pours his heart and soul into every track. Every mix he’s ever made carries a piece of him, is a small page from the story of his life, and speaks for him when his own words fail. While it’s clear to Otabek that Yuri is a master at his craft, it’s also painfully obvious that the younger male has never felt the same connection to his dance that Otabek feels with his music. 

That’s when he gets the idea to play something new for Yuri to dance to. If he can’t find the feeling behind someone else’s choreography, maybe he can find the feeling behind his own. The blonde takes a nasty fall when Otabek fiddles with the aux cord, but he isn’t that worried when he sees the heated glare the younger boy is giving him. It’s one of the half-finished mixes that he has yet to get around to completing, but it’s good enough to incite some emotion out of the cold boy in front of him. He hopes, anyway. 

Yuri is still staring at him with jaw slack. “I-I can’t dance to this,” he stammers. Otabek quirks an eyebrow in challenge. He refuses to believe that Yuri hasn’t heard this piece before, it’s still a popular song despite being more than a few years old; he gives in anyway and skips a bit to a different part of the mix that’s more Yuri’s speed. It’s part of a classic, according to Aman, and from what he knows ballet uses classical music more often than not. The melody is clear, even with Otabek’s little flairs added in. 

“Yuri, listen to this. It’s Beethoven’s Fifth; I’m sure you’ve heard it enough times to have it memorized. Just close your eyes and move to the music, like you always do.” Otabek watches in amusement as Yuri’s jaw works and the blonde mutters to himself about the dangers of dancing with his eyes closed. Finally, though, he does as asked, hands raised high above his head and back arching over empty space as his eyes slide halfway shut. 

Yuri’s first few steps are shaky. He hesitates over where to put his hands or where to turn his feet, and Otabek isn’t sure if that’s because he’s trying to remember old choreography or if he’s genuinely trying to create something new to the music. But soon he falls into the rhythm of the violin and cello, floating across the floor and slowly reverting back to that dispassionate aloofness. So Otabek throws him another curveball.

It takes a few bars, but the DJ man begins to weave One Republic’s  _ Secrets _ back into the mix while fading out Beethoven. There it is – Yuri’s stumbling again, even worse than before. If the annoyed glance that Otabek receives is any indicator, Yuri is not pleased with the abrupt change. The older man doesn’t let up. “I know you know this one too, Yuri. Stop thinking for a minute and just dance.” 

He watches the blonde slow to a near stop. “I’ve never danced to this before. I don’t know what to do.” He’s not facing Otabek, but the brunette can read the tension running through Yuri’s shoulders and down his spine. Otabek sighs to himself, setting his laptop aside after looping the track and walking over to his friend. Hands on the smaller teen’s shoulders, he turns Yuri to face the windows – away from the wall-to-wall mirrors, away from the doors, and away from him. 

“You don’t need to know, because there is no right or wrong. Just move to the music.” He gives the thin shoulders a gentle squeeze before backing away slowly. Yuri takes a stuttering breath, moving through a few tentative steps. The smaller boy is uncertain, Otabek can see that clear as day, but he says nothing as he watches Yuri wander through the music. 

The Kazakh man might not know much about the technical nuances of ballet, but he has an eye for passion. So he looks for it in Yuri.

The blonde is still struggling a spot, his face slowly relaxing from being scrunched up in agitation as he grows incrementally more confident with his choice of moves. The ridged lines that he once held himself to are melting the tiniest bit, arching and bending a little more with every beat. Otabek can almost see Yuri’s fingers relax as he lets the music and his dance blot out all other distractions. His jade eyes have lost their fire and steel, leaving desire and joy and contentment to shine through.

Otabek smiles to himself. Yuri is grace and power and mystery and peace when he lets his heart dance. 

Yuri doesn’t move when Otabek stops the track, still locked in in his final pose. When the older man squints a tad, he sees the blonde trembling. When he walks over, he sees a tear fall off of pale skin. When he wraps his arms around his friend, his heart aches for the sobs the smaller boy stifles in his sweater. 

“Sorry, Yura, I didn’t intend to make you cry,” he mumbles. He was far too pushy; he shouldn’t have pressed his friend so hard. Yuri hiccups softly and sniffles.

“I’m not crying,” he belatedly denies, pressing his face into Otabek’s shoulder. The Russian is clinging to his larger frame, hands fisted in the back of his hoodie, so Otabek simply holds the younger teen until he can breathe normally once more. He ignores how much he wants to keep holding his friend, because such feelings are too troublesome to handle.

“What did you do to me, you asshole?” Yuri murmurs once he can form a coherent sentence. “I’ve never broken down after dancing. What did you do, Beka?”

Otabek merely huffs an amused sigh. “I didn’t do anything, Yura. You just found how to dance for yourself.”

Otabek catches a glimpse of a thin woman with a Spartan face standing in the doorway to the studio over Yuri’s shoulder. Her face is impassive as her eyes flick over him, then Yuri, then the computer still hooked up to the sound system. When she looks back at the unknown man in her studio, she holds his gaze for what seems like an eternity before pointedly looking at her watch. Long, thin fingers flash the numbers ‘three’ and ‘zero’ before she turns away and closes the door softly behind her. Otabek can take a hint.

“Yura.” He nudges the blonde still wrapped in his arms. “You should warm up properly. You have your intensive in half an hour.”

Yuri draws back, his eyes downcast as he slowly nods. Otabek watches an odd pensive look settle over the smaller male as he drifts over to the  _ barre _ under the windows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music featured in this chapter includes [Arwen's Vigil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0tBS_IAX-M), [ Waterfall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8P9hAN-teOU), and [Beethoven's 5 Secrets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0tBS_IAX-Mhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJ_fkw5j-t0), all by the Piano Guys. I've seen dances choreographed to all of these pieces, and they are always phenomenal. 
> 
> Do remember to comment and leave kudos! They really do make me happy. I love hearing feedback!


	6. Pon De Replay, Rihanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can find friends in the weirdest places...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Come Mister DJ song pon de replay_   
_Come Mister DJ won't you turn the music up_   


Yuri doesn’t know where his head is during the intensive. He feels kind of weightless, listless, set adrift; his brain seems to have taken a hike and left his body behind. He’s moving through the motions of his warmup, avoiding colliding with the other dancers, responding to commands and questions, but it’s as if he’s underwater without drowning – everything is kind of muffled, kind of distorted. 

Mila walks in and notices Otabek sitting in the corner of the room straight away, a single perfectly-plucked brow arching over her cerulean eyes as she turns to Yuri. She knows better to say anything with Lilia standing behind them, but her expression speaks volumes. Yuri barely has the heart to give her a shrug before returning to his stretches.

If Lilia notices his distraction, she makes no comment on it. If anything, she pretends today is like any other day, pushing her students to reach new heights. He normally isn’t exempt from her scrutiny, but today she seems to spend more time watching him than teaching.

Yuri can feel Otabek’s eyes on him all day, acting like an anchor, keeping him from drifting too far off into his own head. He knows that the older man is looking for some inspiration for his music, but surprisingly Yuri isn’t trying to impress him like he was thinking of doing just a few hours ago. He’s mindful of his form, yes, but it’s been pushed to the back burner while he wanders around in his own mind.

He’s looking around inside of himself for some answer to _ what _ the actual _ hell _ happened this morning.

Otabek was unusually insistent on Yuri dancing to that mix he played after breaking his concentration. Yes, he had heard Beethoven’s Fifth, he had even performed it years ago, and he had nearly slid back into the focus he needed to dance when Otabek took that focus and shattered it over his knee. He had continued to dance at his friend’s adamant encouragement, but it was sloppy, unpolished, lacking. It felt odd dancing to something that had ‘no right or wrong’, but the longer that stupid pop song had played the more it drowned out everything crowding Yuri’s head until the cello was near consuming him. So he forced his body to move to keep the melody from destroying him.

He wasn’t expecting to feel so _ freed _ after.

For once, he wasn’t worried about making every move immaculate. He wasn’t worried about missing a step in a sequence. He wasn’t worried about presenting to impress anyone. Yuri thinks back and notes with shock that he wasn’t even dancing for Otabek. He had honestly forgotten that his friend was in the room, watching. As far as Yuri was concerned, he was alone with music and a dance floor. Wherever the emotional flood had come from at the end, Yuri knows that he _ can’t _ go back to obsessing over details. The liberation he felt this morning is far too sweet to not chase after.

He idly makes a mental note to make Otabek promise on pain of death to never mention his mortifying episode as he glides through a travel sequence. It’s bad enough that the only person whose opinion he values saw him so weak, despite knowing his friend wouldn’t do anything as callous as drag him for that.

Mila flounces up to him during their fifteen-minute break. “Who’s our guest, do you think? He doesn’t look like a dancer. You think Lilia brought him in for some reason?” She’s sneaking glances at him through the mirrors while leaning on Yuri’s shoulder. Yuri follows her gaze before answering.

“My friend, Otabek Altin. He’s observing so that he can compose a piece for me.” The words are out of his mouth before he can register that he just admitted a number of private thoughts to one of Juilliard’s reining gossip queens. He’s mildly annoyed with himself for the slip up, but the emotion is gone as fast as it comes. He feels Mila freeze before she’s spinning him around to face her, hands gripping his forearms tightly.

“Okay, what is up with you kitten? You’re spacing far too much today. You haven’t cursed at me once, didn’t push me off, and now you’re admitting that there’s a human being that you willingly enjoy spending time with?” She glances back at Otabek. “Who is he?”

Yuri manages to muster a half-hearted glare. “I told you. He’s my friend, and he’s composing a piece for me.” He decides to end the conversation there and walks over to Otabek, who’s bent over his laptop again with a furrowed brow but quickly looks over when Yuri leans on the wall next to him. Mila, to his exasperation, has followed and smiles down at their guest. Yuri sighs and rushes through introductions.

“Otabek, meet Mila Babicheva. Mila, Otabek Altin. I swear, Mila, if you try anything I will make sure you never sleep again.” He grumps and steals Otabek’s laptop while the two get acquainted, listening with half an ear. Otabek has a number of older projects open; he’s probably searching to see if there’s something he’s already started that will work. Yuri flips through the multiple pages and sees a good number of classical and contemporary music open.

“…the club?” Yuri glances up to see Mila smiling with her plotting face on. He raises his brow when Otabek gives the address of the club they’re going to that evening. 

“Do you mind if I show up?” Warning bells are going off in Yuri’s head. Otabek glances at Yuri quickly, as if looking for the blonde’s permission to give Mila permission. Yuri frowns and cuts a definitive ‘no’ to the nosy redhead. This was supposed to be just the two of them hanging out, doing something Otabek likes. 

Otabek turns fully to face the younger blonde. “Yuri, I’ll be playing a three-hour set tonight. I wouldn’t want you to get bored for that long. Maybe you and Mila can enjoy yourselves while I play. I know I’d rather you do that, and I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.” His voice has adopted that conciliating tone again, as though he’s talking to a child throwing a tantrum (which he certainly is _ not_). Maybe Yuri is going soft, but it works this time. He grumbles a sullen ‘fine’, to which Mila promptly tackles him in a hug, babbling about all the dancing they’ll do and how much fun they’ll have. He’s not listening, because Otabek’s genial smile is melting the indignation the woman is causing. 

Lilia is clapping her hands to reconvene the class, and Mila shoots off something about how she’ll meet them at the club at six sharp, dragging Yuri with her back to the middle of the room. Otabek seems awfully amused, hands shoved in his pockets with a half-smirk-half-smile softening the edges of his face. Yuri can’t get it out of his head for the rest of class.

“Yuri.” 

Said blonde blinks as he’s wrenched from his inner musings. Lilia is standing by the music with her arms crossed. He glances at the mirror and is surprised to see that everyone save Otabek, Lilia, and himself has cleared out. Class ended, apparently, with Yuri none the wiser. He turns to his mentor and waits for instruction.

Lilia is appraising him, obsidian eyes piercing his heart. She must have seen something she approves of, because she nods and turns to the music player. “We will run through the piece,” is all she says, and Yuri takes his starting pose.

This time it’s harder to not slip into that habitual mindscape of meticulous perfection, but he tries anyway. He’s still fraught for Lilia to keep him on, and he knows that she will not accept a sub-par performance, even if it is just practice. He misses a _ glissade_, and nearly cringes. This is hard. The critic in him is back, scrutinizing everything again even as he tries to banish it back to wherever it came from. He bites the inside of his cheek as he lands wrong coming out of his _ tours jeté_. His eyes flick over Otabek’s, and he can hear his friend telling him to _ ‘stop thinking and just dance’._

Yuri sucks in a breath and stops dancing, hastily dropping into a bow in front of Lilia. He’s too nervous to look at her face as he requests the music to be restarted. It’s unheard of for a dancer to stop in the middle of presenting to ask for a do-over. But his last run was abysmal, and he wants to do better. He doesn’t look up, waiting for her to say or do _ something_. Finally, the music stops, and he scrambles back into his starting pose. 

The critic is still whispering in his mind as he moves, but this time he’s forcing his focus on the music pouring out of the speakers. He lets every note caress him, paying every beat special mind as though the music is trying to speak to him should he listen hard enough. He talks back in his own language of _ fouettés _ and _ arabesques_, reciting the scripted response he’s learned, and the conversation silences the critic.

When Lilia speaks after he finishes, her voice is as razor-sharp as ever. “Much better, Yuri. _ Otra vez. _ Again.”

* * *

Mila is waiting for him after his afternoon yoga class, wrapped up in her thermal coat and carrying her book bag. Yuri blinks when she grabs his arm and drags him over to the locker room of Lilia’s studio.

“Where’s your club outfit? I _ know _ you aren’t going dressed in that.” She eyes his sweatshirt-and-leggings combo with disdain before she starts rummaging in her bag. Yuri doesn’t move, because he _ was _ intending on going like this – specifically because he left his flat this morning under the assumption that he would be hidden behind the DJ booth with Otabek.

“I didn’t bring anything else,” he finally offers lamely. He hears the redhead scoff as she pulls out a shredded black tank top and black leather pants, finishing the ensemble with a fuchsia blazer adorned with black sequins. Mila shoves the clothes at him, and he resigns himself to changing after she gives him a too-happy smile that promises pain if he doesn’t.

Yuri won’t ever admit that he _ loves _ Mila’s taste in clothes. Her fashion design minor means that she’s always looking for all sorts of outlandish clothes, and she has the eye to manage to pull them into amazing outfits. This time is no different. The leather pants fit perfectly, folding against his skin like ink, and the tank-and-blazer combo are a flawless balance of gaudy and sleek. 

He’s admiring himself in the mirror when strong hands land on his shoulder and force him to sit on one of the many benches littering the locker room. Mila drops a gold chain around his neck and holds up a brush while cocking a hip out with an exaggerated questioning look. Yuri sighs and nods. So far she’s been helpful, and he’s willing to put aside his normal consternation for humanity in general for tonight.

Mila beams at him and moves to start brushing out his tangled blonde hair. Yuri pulls out his phone and twirls it while she works.

“What’s up with you today kitten? You aren’t this cooperative normally. Did something happen?” Her voice is light, as though she’s trying to play off her concern as an opportunity to tease. Yuri worries at his lip.

“Is there a problem with how I dance?”

Mila _ humm_s. “Yes and no. Your technique is damn well near flawless. But you never look happy to be dancing.” He feels her fingers parting his hair. “Today, though, you looked more … well, more at peace.”

Yuri scoffs to himself. His thoughts were anything but peaceful today. He’s quiet a moment, debating on whether or not to explain his sudden character change. “I don’t want you repeating anything that’s said here,” he warns as a hair tie is snapped into his hair. 

Mila reappears in front of him, this time toting a makeup palette and an unwavering grin. Yuri scowls; no, he does _ not _ want to wear makeup, especially not to a club, _ especially _ when Otabek will see him. Mila is unmoved – most likely because she’s grown immune to his mean side – and she offers him a deal. “I won’t repeat anything you tell me in confidence, _ ever_, kitten. Just let me doll you up this once.”

Damn, that’s a good deal, and she knows it. Right now he needs advice, and she’s willing to give it, as well as keep it private in exchange for a bit of makeup. Yuri sighs and closes his eyes as he talks.

And then he’s spilling everything that’s been happening the past two months, explaining his fear of Lilia dropping him and Otabek’s forcing him to dance to new music and his bewildering sob fest after it was over and his absent-mindedness throughout the rest of the day. Mila’s quiet through all of it, just letting him talk as she passes the brush over his eyes. 

“Kitten, Otabek was just trying to get you to dance like _ you_. You’ve probably never danced to anything but someone else’s choreography to someone else’s music. And when he forced you to dance for yourself, you finally had an emotional connection to it. It happens, it’s not something you need to get so worked up over.” Mila’s packing their things away, her back to Yuri as he mulls this over. A part of him knows she’s right, but hearing it out loud makes him realize that he’s not sure he knows how to dance for himself yet despite having almost twelve years of classical training under his belt. The sobering thoughts leave him feeling unmoored again.

Mila’s hugging him from behind, and he uses her weight to ground himself. “Just try to dance without thinking about it, Yuri. Sometimes, it’s not all about being perfect. You’ll find your own style soon enough.”

Yuri nods, and then happy-Mila is back, gushing over how she just _ knew _ this look would work for him. He shakes off his melancholy and gripes about how she’s a creep for knowing his size, before bursting out into full-blown laughter. He’s stunned to realize that he doesn’t mind her presence quite as much anymore.

It’s only when his phone goes off that they actually leave the locker room. It’s a text from Otabek, saying that he’s leaving the café now and heading over. Yuri responds quickly as Mila takes out a purse and locks her book bag up. She has to leave now if she wants to meet them at the club at ‘six sharp’ like she promised.

Yuri walks her to the bus, shoving his hands in his pockets and giving her a murmured ‘thanks for earlier’. She merely smiles and hugs him one last time, shooting him a wink and a ‘see you soon’ as she prances onto the bus. 

Otabek pulls up not fifteen minutes later – leather, motorbike, and all – and Yuri’s suddenly nervous for a reason he can’t understand. He normally doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what other people think about how he dresses. On top of that, Mila worked magic and made him look nice. He’s slim and toned; he knows he looks good right now. That doesn’t stop him from releasing a small breath of relief as Otabek gives him an appreciative once-over.

“You look great, Yura,” the Kazakh says as Yuri snaps the helmet over his blonde hair, careful of the small bun at the back of his head that Mila’s charmed into existence. Yuri grins and climbs onto the bike.

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” he teases back as Otabek kicks up the stand and they take off. The crisp air whips around them, and Yuri’s feeling a bit cold as they lace their way through Manhattan. But Otabek is warm, probably because of the black leather jacket and thick jeans the older man is wearing, so he presses himself closer to his friend’s back to leech some of his heat. 

By the time Otabek parks the bike, the sun has fully set behind the skyline and there’s music pouring out of the building they’re behind. Otabek flashes a card at a bouncer standing at a side door, mentioning something about Yuri and Mila being his guests, and then they’re both given tags to wear with the word ‘staff’ in red. Otabek beckons to Yuri, leading the blonde into the din of the club. They’re in a back lounge room, and there’s sound equipment littered around.

Otabek is fiddling with his phone as he addresses Yuri. “We’re both underage here, so no alcohol, but everything else is on the house. Just show your badge to the bar hand and they’ll get you anything. I’m going to go set up.” He looks up from his phone and hands Yuri a second badge. “Give that to her once she gets here.”

Yuri nods and pockets the tag. “Come on then, I want to watch you set up. I never get to with our weird-ass schedules, and if I can’t watch you play up close then I’m damn sure helping you prep.” He’s walking to a door that he assumes leads to the rest of the club when he hears Otabek chuckle.

He guessed right, because as soon as the thick door cracks even an inch the music becomes obnoxiously loud. Otabek leads him to a small raised platform at the head of a large backlit dancefloor. Speaker towers ring a small booth, which Yuri assumes is supposed to house the DJs. Someone else is already there, messing with a slew of buttons, but he glances up when Otabek steps onto the platform and clears out fast with a nod.

Yuri watches in fascination as Otabek pulls out four different USB sticks and plugs them into a soundboard almost as long as he is tall. His computer is out next, resting on a small table, which he hooks up to a long wire that appears out of thin air. Headphones go around his neck, and then he’s playing some heavy rock song.

Otabek glances over at his silent companion, calling Yuri over with a nod of his head. Said blonde glances at the nest of wires snaking around their feet and carefully maneuvers over to Otabek’s side. He hands Yuri another pair of headphones, and then moves one side to the back of his ear once he puts them on. Pointing to a slider bar, he waits for Yuri to nudge it over.

Blonde eyebrows jump up in surprise when the bass beat of the song suddenly falls off. Otabek is grinning at him, moving another slider bar to change the sound of the guitars. Yuri is reaching for a dial before he knows it, baulking at the last second and looking over to his friend for his approval. Tan fingers nudge his hand over to a separate dial, and Yuri gives it a twist. Faintly, he can hear second song playing. He turns the dial more, and the second song grows louder. Otabek is fading out the first song, amber eyes flicking over a number of screens and lights all at once. 

The older man gives Yuri free reign to play around on the sound board, and Yuri realizes that it’s hard to switch songs. One attempt has him cringing when two songs in different keys clash. Otabek is quick to fix the mistake, pressing a button a few times to bring the new song into the same key as the old. Another time Yuri introduces a beat track a third of a second to late, and the delay sounds obvious. Otabek, in a rare moment of posturing, does an extravagant scratch transition as he fixes the timing. One song had an odd echo to it, and Yuri catches a frown on the DJ’s face as his fingers fly over the controls to get rid of it. For every slip-up Yuri makes, Otabek adjusts just as quickly, and Yuri finds new respect for his friend. As a performer, he knows how hard it is to cover someone’s mistakes, and Otabek makes it seem effortless. He would be jealous if it weren’t for the fact that he knows Otabek has literal years of experience over him.

Fuck it, he is a bit jealous. Otabek is amazing when he’s in his element.

A staff member walks up and flashes ten fingers up to the DJ booth, and Otabek nods. If the club is opening in ten minutes, that means Mila should be around outside. He glances at Otabek, who is now in the midst of a serious sound check, and merely slips off his headphones, placing them in Otabek’s line of sight. Like Yuri thought, Otabek understands immediately and gives him a quick nod before concentrating again. 

Yuri traipses off the platform and over to the bar, and the man behind the counter raises an eyebrow at him. Yuri isn’t fazed; this man has nothing on Lilia’s stare. He shows his badge and asks for two bottles of water. When he gets them, he races back to the DJ booth and drops them off besides Otabek’s laptop as a text comes in. Mila’s outside, standing right by the front entrance bouncer. 

Yuri sticks his head out into the cold night, catching sight of ruddy hair and blue eyes, and grabs Mila’s attention. She’s uncharacteristically annoyed, and Yuri can make out the guard saying something about waiting in line like the rest of the club’s patrons. So he does the only logical thing and makes a grand show of latching on to Mila’s arm.

“What the hell, _бaбa_? You left your badge at the studio! We’ve been here for like half an hour already!” He slings her badge over her neck, flashing a feral smile at the bouncer who now has no choice but to let them both in. Mila coos at the man, hanging off Yuri’s shoulder like she’s wont to do.

“Thanks, kitten, I owe you,” she says honestly as they enter the club. Yuri shrugs and drags her to one of the tables by the DJ booth, immediately claiming the spot as their own as the room starts to fill up. He shoots Otabek a text, but he knows his friend hasn’t read it yet, because he’s kind of busy putting on a show. 

“Your friend is a _ god_,” Mila gushes. “His taste in music is amazing, and he’s playing well.” Yuri nods. He knows full-well that Otabek can mesmerize with his music. He’s seen it happen more than once. Mila’s first experience with DJ Otabek will be a good one. 

Mila sheds her coat, revealing a slinky maroon dress, and waves one of the working girls over, asking her to watch their table before turning back to Yuri. “Come on kitten. Let’s dance.”

Wait what?

“Mila, no…” He doesn’t want to dance. His companion clearly has other ideas. She drags Yuri to the middle of the illuminated dance floor, pressing into the crush of bodies that has already amassed, and easily starts swaying to the music. Yuri hesitates. He doesn’t dance like this – Mila’s like wine in the crowd, sultry and sweet and making everyone drunk on her. He can’t do that.

Her hands latch onto his arms, and she pulls him flush next to her. “Just move, Yuri,” is all she murmurs in his ear. She doesn’t move to far away from him, he can still feel her heat on his skin, and he knows she’s watching out for him. Gratitude is a new taste on Yuri’s tongue.

_Stop thinking and just dance.' _Otabek’s voice floats through his mind once more. Otabek must be watching as well. Even if he isn’t in arm’s reach, Otabek is still very much around Yuri. So he stops thinking and dances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I tagged it last time, but the piece that Lilia has Yuri drilling is [Arwen's Vigil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0tBS_IAX-M) by The Piano Guys. 
> 
> I think I worked out my posting schedule to every three-to-four days, so I can have it finished by the end of the year. I promise, this piece is already done, so it's not another one of my WIPs. Other than that, let me hear what you all think!


	7. Crush, David Archuleta/Dance with My Mother Again, Georgia Box Rewrite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of Otabek's silent suffering and a glimps into Yuri's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Do you ever think when you're all alone_   
_All that we can be, where this thing can go?_   
_Am I crazy or falling in love?_   
_Is it real or just another crush?_   


Otabek drags a clawed hand through his messed hair. He’s lying on his bed in his loft, phone in hand with his and Yuri’s conversation open. It’s been open for an hour, and it’s not even ten in the morning yet.

This has been happening a lot lately. Ever since Otabek brought Yuri to one of his gigs, actually. He will want to talk to Yuri, and agonize for the better part of an hour over what to say to avoid sounding like a creep or weird, before settling on a simple and generic text that he sends. It’s becoming quite problematic.

Because ever since that night a little over two weeks ago, Otabek has been acutely cognizant of his attraction to the younger boy. 

At the club, he had watched Yuri and Mila during his set after Mila had somehow convinced Yuri to dance. A miracle in and of itself, Otabek will easily admit considering the general temperament Yuri displays, but he’s grateful that the redhead managed because he was able to witness something ethereal amidst the smoke and lights. Once he shook off his initial awkwardness, Yuri was a firestorm – bright and captivating and wild. His ballet training was so deeply ingrained that even as he arched and bent and wove his way through the crowd, the blonde teen was the epitome of finesse and grace. He was an attention magnet, and to Otabek’s consternation, Yuri _ loved _ it. He fed off of it in the same way Rita fed off of a crowds’ enthusiasm; it was what made the two of them feel alive, so they wrung the crowds for every drop that they had. 

Otabek had found himself drawn to the maelstrom that was his best friend more than once, and had a moment of panic when he recognized _ jealousy _ coiling inside him at the attention Yuri was getting from the other patrons and the _ possessiveness _ that tingled at fingertips twitching to grab at pale skin. The teen was gorgeous, Otabek had always known that (lithe frame and agile limbs with piercing green eyes and spun gold for hair, Yuri was a masterpiece and he made sure damn well everyone knew it), but Yuri’s outfit was downright sinful. Between the skin-tight leather pants and the shredded t-shirt Otabek was left with little to imagine. The club lights had bounced off sweat-slicked ivory skin and Otabek, to his horror, had _ arousal _ running through his veins instead of blood. By the end of his set, he was wishing it has been _ him _ keeping Yuri company, not Mila. He wanted to be the reason the blonde threw back his head and laughed. He wanted to be the only one Yuri danced for. He almost didn’t want to take Yuri back to his flat once the night was over. 

It’s somewhat alarming that it took all of two and a half months for that blonde natural disaster to worm his way into Otabek’s heart, and even more distressing to see how much room that blonde has taken up.

It’s all very troublesome, really.

So now he agonizes over every text he sends, hoping he can hide his feelings, because _ arousal _ and _ jealousy _ and _ possessiveness _ are dangerous. They have no place in a friendship, and certainly not one as close as his and Yuri’s. He feels like he’s been handed a weapon suddenly, one that he doesn’t know how to use, and if he’s not careful he’ll destroy everything and chase everyone away, so he tucks it out of sight and hopes it won’t hurt him in the long run. He cares for Yuri far too much for something as inane and precarious as his infatuation to drive the blonde to leave. 

Otabek can see Yuri being the greatest one day. It’s a clear vision to him, and Yuri works so hard for it to become reality. He has so much potential, and the ambition to keep pushing for it. The boy puts in more hours at the dance studio in a single day than he does working at both clubs in a week. There’s nowhere for Yuri to go but up. Otabek can only hope that he can watch Yuri conquer heights that he can’t even dream are possible, that he can be lucky enough to stand in the light that Yuri casts off.

Otabek, on the other hand, is stuck where he is for the foreseeable future. _ Əĸe _ is still working day and night back in Kazakhstan, _ Aнa _ is still sick, and his two sisters are still too young to help. Adding on the stress of paying for his classes is nothing short of cruel when his family is struggling, so Otabek will happily put his dream of a degree in music on hold until things are better at home. He’s doing alright on his own, working clubs and playing the streets, but he could never afford college tuition by himself. So he’ll bide his time until an opportunity comes.

Yuri is success embodied. Otabek will only weigh him down with his problems. Besides, Yuri doesn’t see Otabek like that. Better to watch him ascend from the side as his friend than miss it because he’s scared him off.

Otabek sighs and sends Yuri a simple _ ‘How was practice?_’ He knows the blonde is busy today – there’s some sort of winter showcase happening and Lilia’s intensive class will be performing, so Yuri’s putting in extra hours for the rest of the month. Otabek can’t imagine that Yuri needs much more training; the blonde is quick on the uptake of the complex moves Lilia calls out. He can see how the steps flow together in his mind in the same way Otabek can hear how two songs should mix.

He gets a reply rather quickly, and an eyebrow rises. Yuri doesn’t text during class, even if Lilia were the type of woman to allow it. The boy has the discipline of a soldier when it comes to things he cares about.

> _ It’s a professional day or some shit. No class. _

Ah. He’s debating over asking what Yuri plans on doing for the day when said teen beats him to it.

> _ I’m coming over. _
> 
> _ Katsudon has his stupid boyfriend over._
> 
> _I might kill one or both of them if I have to spend my day off around them. _

Otabek chuckles. Yuri may bellyache about his flatmate, but he really doesn’t hate Yuuri Katsuki. He hates the ‘sappy couple bullshit’ that happens when Katsuki’s interest (one Viktor Nikiforov, The Russian Ballet’s star principal male of seven years and choreography TA for one of Yuuri’s theater classes) comes over. Otabek has met both before, separately and together, and he admits that he really doesn’t envy Yuri. Those two together are a bit … much.

> _ I wasn’t planning on staying in today. I’ll grab Aman’s car and we’ll go somewhere. _

He really doesn’t want to stay home either. He has nowhere to be today; Rita’s sick and JJ has work, and while he and Amanet can easily play without them, they’re just a bit too lazy today. Normally it’s the threat of Rita’s anger that keeps them on schedule.

Another text comes in, making Otabek laugh.

> _ You have half an hour to get over here. _
> 
> _ Any later and you’re helping me hide the bodies. _

He shoots Amanet a text, asking him to drive over so that he can steal his car before getting ready to leave. It’s a week into December, and as much as he loves his bike it’s too damn cold. Amanet answers ten minutes later. To Otabek’s surprise, he’s already outside.

Otabek smirks and types a reply to Yuri.

> _ The rivers will freeze over tonight. So long as they’re weighed down, no one will find them until spring. I’m leaving now. _

Besides, a day with Yuri is far more entertaining than lazing around his house.

He lets Amanet into his loft as the other man tosses his car keys. Amanet makes a beeline for the fridge, grabbing a soda after he puts down his cello. “I was coming over anyway. I wanted to use your soundboard and loop pedal for a cover I’m working on. What do you need my car for?” 

Otabek is shrugging on his leather jacket and pocketing his wallet as he answers. “Yuri’s in need of rescuing, it seems. Not sure when I’ll be back, so no burning down my place.” 

He hears Amanet snort. “Don’t wreck my car, and I won’t have to. Yuri’s the blonde dancer who hangs around when we play Times Square, right?” Otabek gives a noncommittal hum. “…Alright, when are you telling him that you like him?”

Otabek freezes and levels a hard glare at the German. “Not an option. Drop it.”

Amanet raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just worried about you, man. It’s not a good idea to keep that from him.” He turns and starts unpacking his cello, leaving Otabek pressing his thumb nail into his index finger so that the pain can distract him from the fact that his friend read him like a book and the truth in Amanet’s statement. 

He speeds to Yuri’s flat in twenty minutes, where the blonde is leaning against the door with his arms crossed and a deep-set scowl on his face despite the frigid air and mountains of snow on the ground. He’s in black skinny jeans and a cheetah-print hoodie about four sizes too large. Otabek can barely catch a glimpse of an emerald cashmere crew neck under the gaudy print as Yuri climbs into the Escalade. Yuri’s silently fuming in the passenger seat, tearing through his Tumblr at record speed. He doesn’t even look at Otabek, much less greet him with a ‘what’s up?’ or ‘you’re not gonna believe this…’ like he normally does.

“You okay Yura?” Otabek’s only seen Yuri this upset twice, and both times was when someone (read – Viktor) brought up the subject of his family. He’s dying to know Yuri’s family history, but aside from knowing the younger teen adores his grandfather, he’s willing to wait until Yuri volunteers the information.

Yuri doesn’t answer. “Just drive. I don’t care where.”

Otabek eyes his friend for a moment more, before shifting gears and pulling away from the curb. He knows better than to press Yuri right now, but he also cares too much to just ignore it. He’ll ask later, after Yuri’s had a chance to cool off. “I’ll take you to one of the cafés I frequent.” Yuri doesn’t respond; he’s silent the entire ten-minute ride, retreating deep into the hood of his sweater. 

They luck out, and Otabek parks relatively close to the small basement café, making the half-block walk on foot. Soft jazz is wafting up, and the smell of caffeine and fresh pastries is almost overwhelming. It’s not even ten in the morning, so the place is almost empty. He and Yuri order and take a seat at a booth in the corner of the café, and for once the silence is starting to grate on Otabek. Yuri is never this quiet. If he’s not in the middle of a story, he’s ranting about something-or-the-other. Otabek isn’t much of a talker himself, but he’s grown used to Yuri’s endless chatter.

It’s not until their drinks come that Yuri finally speaks. “My father is in New York.” He’s not looking at Otabek, choosing to attempt burning holes into the table with his eyes. 

Otabek is careful with his words, weighing each one in his mind as he takes a sip of his coffee. “And that’s a bad thing.” It’s not a question. Yuri’s behavior is as good an indicator as any that the younger boy isn’t pleased with these developments.

“Yes, it fucking is.” Otabek watches pale fingers grip the pale ceramic cup with far more force than is necessary. “He’s a complete asshole and I hope he rots in hell.”

“Yura, you’re going to have to help me understand here. Why don’t you like your father?” The brunette realizes he’s poking at a bomb, but he needs some context. Surely whatever grudges Yuri holds his father accountable for isn’t so bad as to warrant all of this animosity. Otabek is almost certain this is just a normal parent-to-child misunderstanding, and that he can try to talk Yuri out of his anger. But Yuri’s green eyes slicing to his has him steeling his nerves for reasons he doesn’t know. They’re cold and hard again, with only anger smoldering in their depths. He hasn’t seen such a look on Yuri’s face since the first time he saw the blonde.

“That man killed my mother. What’s there to understand?”

Shit.

Yuri plows on through Otabek’s silence, but Yuri isn’t screaming. His voice is low, threatening, hissing, daring Otabek to say otherwise. It scares him more than yelling would have. “He married one of Russia’s greatest _ prima donnas _ at the height of her career. He coerced her to quit when she was making a name for herself. He burdened her with a child before she was ready. He left her to take care of that kid at twenty-two with no way to make a living. He lied to her, he cheated on her, he broke her down until she wasted away and died. He made her life a living hell. And then he took that kid and did the same.” 

Otabek is cold, down to his core. “Yura…”

“I don’t want your pity, Otabek.”

It’s the first time Yuri’s addressed him using his full name in weeks. Otabek shoves the hurt that blooms in him to the side. This isn’t the time for his stupid feelings to be ruling his thoughts. “How did you find out that he’s here?”

“_Dedushka_ called. He’s here on some business trip. With his _new_ _wife_.” Yuri spits out and goes back to glaring at the table.

“But they don’t know that you’re here?” Otabek is pleading with every deity he can name that Yuri’s safe, despite the smaller boy sitting right in front of him. The thought that someone had caused his friend such pain shreds his heart. He sighs in relief when Yuri shakes his head. 

“That’s why _ Dedushka _ warned me. If he did know I was here and studying ballet, he’d probably try to drag me back to Russia. I’d never dance again. I won’t let that happen.” 

Otabek makes a mental note to keep tabs on Yuri. He won’t let that happen, either. “Promise me you’ll call if you need me.” He’s not one to sit by and let a friend suffer. Yuri is no exception; if anything, he’s the prime example now. Maybe he’ll go warn Mila; if anyone in New York cares for Yuri as much as he does, it’s that woman. She can keep an eye on Yuri when he can’t. Even if Yuri gets mad at him for it. 

Yuri barely nods. “You’ll be the first to know if something happens.”

Something inside Otabek is still restless. “Promise me, Yura.”

“I promise.”

They fall silent as their food arrives. “Will you tell me about her?” Otabek asks once the waitress leaves.

Yuri’s trembling, and Otabek chooses to not think when he covers his smaller hand with his own. “_Maмa _ was a legend in the ballet world. Viktor, Katsudon, Yakov, everyone knows Svetlana Ivanov-Plisetsky. She and Lilia were both in The Russian Ballet before Lilia transferred to Bolshoi. Sometimes she tells me stories about their time in the Ballet. It’s odd hearing her speak of _ Maмa _ as though they were close friends. Weird hearing about a part of her life that I never got the chance to know. Maybe they were really close. 

“She was one of the best, traveling and performing everywhere. Her last show was here, in New York with the American Ballet Theater. Everyone said she was a creature from beyond this world for how beautifully she danced. Like a fairy or a princess or even a goddess. And _ Dedushka _ says that when I came along, she thought the world was perfect. She taught me how to dance to distract me from her weight loss and lack of sleep and _ his _ abuse. I love ballet because she loved it.” 

“And that’s why you want to become a dancer,” Otabek concludes. A new level of respect and protectiveness wells up inside him. Yuri takes a shuddering breath.

“It’s the only way I know to honor her. It’s all I have left of her. I … I just want to make her proud.” 

“I can’t imagine that she isn’t proud right now. You’re an amazing dancer.” Otabek knows that _ he _ is certainly proud of Yuri, for soldiering on despite everything and taking up his mother’s mantle. It takes a brand of courage and dedication and devotion that not many people possess. For all of Yuri’s brash and crude exterior, he is sensitive and vulnerable underneath. 

Yuri presses his free hand to his eyes, scrubbing at them harshly. “I will perform on the same stage my mother once danced on. That’s all I want. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

So that’s why the blonde trains so hard. Why he’s so desperate to impress Lilia and Yakov. He has big shoes to fill, to match and surpass his mother just to feel a bit closer to her, hoping that she’d be proud of him if she were still here to see him. He’s spent every waking hour of the last few years reaching for this. Otabek is suddenly assaulted with a sweeping desire to help him reach his dream. “You will, Yura,” is all he says.

The younger teen picks at his pastry. “It’s hard,” he mumbles. “Lilia says that I’ve improved, but I still can’t dance like _ Maмa_. Not yet. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m missing.”

“You have time, Yura. You’ll figure it out.” Otabek feels Yuri grip his hand back. He’s never felt more undeserving of Yuri’s company, but so long as the Russian wants him around, he’ll help the teen as much as he can. 

If any part of Otabek was fighting to reveal his secret to Yuri, it’s been successfully cowed. He can’t be so selfish as to unload all of his problems on Yuri, who’s already fought off the world and its cruel hand. He thinks back to the first day he laid eyes on the boy in front of him, on the eyes of a soldier that haunted him for weeks. Already, Yuri’s come far from there. He laughs more, he’s more animated, he lets people in. Those jade eyes aren’t so jaded anymore. They’ve lost the cold detachment that was his armor against betrayal and the brittle steel that was his sword against hardship.

Yuri’s agonized far too much for one so young and bright, in Otabek’s opinion, and he resolves to shoulder whatever burdens he can for his friend and withstand the weight of his own sentiments.

Love, after all, is nothing if not blindly enduring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _If I could steal_   
_One final glance_   
_One final step_   
_One final dance with her_   
_I'd play a song that went on and on_   
_How I'd love, love, love_   
_To dance with my mother once more_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> _Əĸe_: Father in Kazakh  
_Aнa_: Mother in Kazakh
> 
> * * *
> 
> Y'all remember the tag I shoved up there? The one where Beka is pining for a long time? Yeah, that starts now. 
> 
> [Georgia Box's rewrite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0_awIlagMg) is a version I stumbled across completely by accident, but I'm glad I did because it fits Yuri's mindset so well. In case you didn't read the [companion fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231854?view_adult=true) that I mentioned a few chapters ago, this is a good time to do so. I mean, if you want to. No pressure.


	8. Behind These Hazel Eyes, Kelly Clarkson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a hundred thousand ways to say _I love you_...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Here I am_   
_Once again_   
_I'm torn into pieces_   


“Kitten, do you have an older brother?” 

Yuri rolls his eyes at Mila. They’re alone in the dance studio at Juilliard; the intensive class has resumed a week ago, exactly six days into the New Year, and both Mila and Yuri are warming up before Lilia arrives. 

“No, _ бaбa_, I don’t have a brother. Thank god,” he mutters, arching his back over his split and grasping his rear ankle, relishing the pull in his quadriceps and hamstrings. He has no clue why Mila would think such a thing. Being an only child had its perks.

“Are you sure? No long-lost relative? Because I swear that I saw an older you talking to Yakov as I walked in this morning. A carbon copy, right down to the glare.” She pokes his forehead teasingly, where Yuri’s brow is furrowed in confusion and annoyance. 

“No, I don’t have any siblings, and if you say that again I’ll make sure they never find your body.” Yuri doesn’t like being compared to anyone – he’s his own fuck mothering person and works hard to be recognized as such, thank you very much – and he hates that he looks like his father and not his mother, but he would rather have her ballet talent any day. But Mila’s description suggests that his father is here.

Yuri freezes. _ Fuck_.

“Mila, are you sure that person you saw looks like me?” Yuri scrambles out of his stretch, nearly pulling something in his haste, and latches onto Mila’s arm. It’s a slim chance – this is New York, and about a third of the population looks like him – but there’s a possibility and panic is taking root at an alarming pace. He can’t be here. Not now.

Mila’s face is contorted into an odd mixture of confusion and worry. “Blonde shoulder-length hair, green eyes, thin body, Russian accent, hard glare wrapped up in a black suit and a gold watch. Kitten, who is he?”

If it’s possible for a Russian to pale more, Yuri proves it possible now. He’s the color of ash and trembling like a leaf in a harsh gale. There can’t be more than a handful of blonde Russian males with an interest in Julliard’s dance program. And his father is among that small number. “He can’t find me.” He _ can’t_. He’ll force Yuri to leave and _ Dedushka _ isn’t here for him to run to anymore. He’ll force Yuri to leave and he’ll never finish Lilia’s course and he’ll never see Mila or Otabek again, so he has to make himself scarce _ now_.

His tumbling thoughts and half-planned escapes are pulled up short when Lilia walks in, eyes more cold than Yuri can ever remember them being. She locks on Yuri in a heartbeat, and Yuri doesn’t know what to do. He wants to run (he’s disgusted that a single man can bring out such _ fear _ in him), he wants to stay (because he has to practice and Lilia might just skin him alive if he skips out today), he wants to hide (the amount of shame he has at his current disoriented state is enough to make him wish the ground would swallow him up), he wants to yell (he’s so _ sick _ of bowing to that man its maddening); his head spins when Mila asks Lilia for a day off.

The _prima_ _donna_ is still staring at him with obsidian eyes, ignoring the redhead’s request and addressing him instead. “Aleksander Plisetsky is here. Yakov is speaking with him, but he cannot hold that man forever. You are relieved from classes for the rest of the week. Do not return to your flat; as your father, he has every right to request for the address. Yuuri Katsuki will be notified.”

Her words fall around him like the shards of a shattered mirror, reflecting his horror in stark definition and tearing through his armor, leaving him defenseless. Mila’s arms come around him, and he lets her hold him together. It’s too much to process. Aleksander is _ here_, invading his life again, and now he’s being kicked out of the only place that he can find comfort. He thought he was done running and hiding from that monster when he moved to his grandfather’s all those years ago. _ Why is he back? _

“I’ll call Otabek,” Mila whispers, choking on her worry, only letting go when Yuri nods. Her eyes are asking a million questions, but Yuri’s distress keeps them at bay, so she turns and all but runs for the locker room for her phone. She takes her warmth with her, so he wraps his arms around himself in an effort to hoard the heat she’s left behind. 

“Yuri Plisetsky.” Thin, elegant fingers brush aside the curtain of blonde fringe in his eye. “I did not do right by your mother. I will not do the same to you. He will not harm you.”

Yuri’s trying to keep his voice steady. He almost manages it. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Those thin fingers fall to his jaw. Lilia is not the type to be touchy-feely, and she certainly isn’t a comforting type. But she’s unusually gentle as she speaks. “Your mother was one of my dearest friends. When she met Aleksander I turned a blind eye to her pain at her insistence. I regret it every day. I will not fail her child the way I failed her.”

It’s the closest Lilia’s ever come to saying that she cares for Yuri, never mind the fact that she is admitting to _ having _ a close friend who happens to be his _ mother_, and his eyes mist. He’s tired of crying in front of people he respects. It’s getting old. So he balls his fists in his shirt until his arms shake from the tension and tries to focus on the whorls and lines in the glossy floorboards. Lilia doesn’t care, passing her thumb under his eyes, erasing the evidence of his tears for him. They stay silent for an eternity, and Yuri clings to Lilia’s steadfast strength until the door to the studio opens once more. Lilia tenses and spins around to face the intruder; Yuri’s hoping that her sharp voice will jar him and force his cold exterior back. But she doesn’t snap at whoever it is. 

“Yura.” 

Only one person calls him that. Footsteps echo through the studio and he relaxes into the arms that surrounds him and hides his face in warm leather and suede. “Beka.” 

He shuts the rest of the world off, clinging to Otabek and losing himself in the soft rumble of his friend’s tenor as the older man talks to Lilia and Mila. He wants the drone of voices to blot out the brittle words of nightmares run wild, to help him forget the number of sleepless nights he’s spent because of them. The vibrations of Otabek’s chest are like aloe to a burn Yuri didn’t even know he had. 

And then the Kazakh is prying him off long enough to drop his leather jacket around Yuri’s small shoulders, guiding him back out of the studio after Mila changes his shoes. Yuri’s woken up out of his trance at the movement and the situation pours back into the forefront of his mind. 

“Beka, I … I can’t … he …” Words won’t come to Yuri’s mouth. But Otabek seems to understand all the same.

“I know, Yura. Mila told me. You’re staying with me for the week. He won’t find you, even if he turns Juilliard upside down.” Otabek’s voice is odd, Yuri thinks. It’s a weird mix of calm and tension. He’s upset and trying to hide it; probably because Yuri’s a weakling and a burden and called the older man out of bed at an unholy hour in the morning. He can’t stand the thought that that he’s the reason Otabek is annoyed. 

The cold of January in New York freezes his face and what little sky he can see between the high-rise buildings is a mottled jumble of grey. Yuri almost walks straight into a mountain of equally grey snow on the curb, only missing it because of Otabek’s arm around his waist. Yuri worries that the other man might be cold; Otabek is only dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and his normal dark-wash jeans now that Yuri has his leather jacket. He’ll get sick if he stays out in this weather for too long. 

A part of Yuri recognizes that he’s just avoiding the problem by thinking of anything else, but it’s working, so he doesn’t stop. The little voice niggling at the back of his mind quiets.

Amanet is double-parked in front of Juilliard, watching them climb into the back in concern through the rearview mirror. Yuri doesn’t have the strength to fend off questions that he doesn’t know the answer to, and he’s grateful that Otabek orders the German to drive them to his loft, leaving no room for discussion. He’s still wrapped up in Otabek’s jacket and tucked into his side, and the older man makes no move to change their position through the entire ride. Yuri doesn’t know whether to feel grateful to his friend, annoyed at himself, or sorry to everyone he’s troubled this morning. 

By the time Amanet drops them off, Yuri’s shaken off most of his jumbled thoughts and boxed away most of his unruly emotions, but now he’s so drained from the emotional upheaval that he doesn’t move on his own. He lets Otabek pull him up and into the loft he’s come to know well over the past semester. 

Otabek doesn’t say anything as he sets Yuri on his rumpled bed like a doll, dropping his duffle and book bag at the foot of the bed before bustling around in the kitchenette. He comes back with a large cup of tea that he presses into Yuri’s hands and a chair that he drops into across from the blonde.

“He didn’t get to you, Yura?” is the first thing he says once Yuri takes a few sips of the chamomile tea. It’s sweet with cream and sugar. Lilia will not be pleased if she finds out. Yuri whispers ‘no’.

Yuri hears Otabek sigh and a mumbled ‘sorry’ tumbles out of him on reflex. He knows that he’s a nuisance right now. He’s imposing on his best friend and disrupting his dance troupe and disappointing his mother, all in one morning. That must be a new record or something. Yuri scoffs internally. Instead of being a legendary _ principal _ he’s a legendary pest.

Otabek is staring at him in disbelief, the veins on the back of his hands standing out in sharp relief from the force he’s using on his own fingers. “What on earth are you sorry for Yura? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Yuri’s tea mug is a matte black on the outside and a glazed red, and he rubs his finger over the dry surface. “For bothering you so early in the morning.” He knows the sun hasn’t even had the chance to fight its way over the New York skyline. Otabek is never up this early, because all of his days start after noon and last well into the night. He’s the night owl to Yuri’s early bird, though neither of them are like that by choice but rather by necessity. 

“Yura.” Otabek is sounding odd again. This time it’s a mix of worry and something Yuri can only identify as hurt. He’s probably offended Otabek, and another apology is working its way out of his throat when the older man silences him with firm hands on his shoulders. “I don’t care how early it is. I promised that I’d be there if you needed me, no matter what. You are _ not _ a bother.”

He can’t look at Otabek, because he’s afraid he’ll start crying again. How the hell this man got through his life being so blunt and straightforward is beyond Yuri, because his words are like a thick blanket tossed over him – its simultaneously shocking and comforting and altogether baffling. He knows he’s being silly, he knows that Otabek will happily drop everything for Yuri without a single complaint, and he doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. It’s confusing and disorienting, because only his mother and grandfather ever made bold declarations like that.

If the older man notices Yuri’s quiet shuddering, he makes no comment, choosing instead to turn on the TV and pull up some stupid kid’s movie after giving Yuri another firm squeeze on the shoulders. Yuri pounces on the distraction, placing the empty mug on the bookshelf and snagging the heavy comforter folded up at the foot of Otabek’s bed, wrapping himself in it like he used to when he was younger. Its owner climbs onto the mattress besides him and settles in, stretched out over the duvet and reclining on the pillows against the headboards. 

Yuri glances at Otabek, yearning to get warm despite already being swaddled in the knitted afghan. Otabek feels safe, in a way that Yuri thought stopped existing when his mother passed. But he doesn’t want to annoy Otabek further, so he stares forward, hunched over in layers of yarn until he feels those firm hands on his shoulders again, pulling him back into a loose embrace. Otabek tosses the comforter over their prone bodies carelessly, eyes still on the TV as though this were natural for him. 

They don’t move for the rest of the morning.

* * *

Otabek glances at Yuri, completely passed out to his left. He figures that his companion fell asleep sometime during their fourth movie, but he doesn’t have the heart to wake him up. The sun is streaming in through the large bay window, making Yuri’s curled-up form look more angelic than ever. It’s almost noon, and neither of them have eaten yet.

Otabek carefully extracts himself from the tangle of limbs and sheets they’ve become, taking care to keep Yuri from waking up. Years ago when he was younger and it was his little sisters who needed uninterrupted hours of binge time to distract them from adversities, they always enjoyed a meal after they woke up from their inevitable naps. Amina, the older of the two, would always like _ pilaf_, while Inzhu would happily eat anything – including junk food or take-out. He wasn’t sure that Yuri would like any traditional Kazakh food, but he could easily make a simple rice and chicken lunch. And he can always order out from the deli down the street if anything.

He makes his way over to the kitchen and starts preparing their food and lets the simple act of cooking shove all of the quiet anger simmering under his skin to the side. He can’t recall the last time he ever got so upset over something; he’s normally level-headed with a very high tolerance for many things. If he’s ever been this mad before, he doesn’t remember. 

Mila’s phone call made him _ livid. _

It’s a good thing he asked Mila to keep an eye out on Yuri. Her quiet babbling rush of _ ‘Yuri’s panicking because someone called Aleksander Plisetsky is here, and he looks just like Yuri because apparently he’s his father, and even Lilia is more tense than normal, he needs to get out of here Otabek’ _ at six-forty in the morning was more like a hot towel in his face than a splash of cold water. Amanet had crashed on his couch the night before after another late recording session, so Otabek woke him up by shoving him off of the couch and telling him to get his car started. Said man took one look at the thunderstorm that was his face and bolted out the door without another word from Otabek. 

Rage gave way to concern the moment he laid eyes on Yuri. Lilia was in the room, standing guard over her blonde pupil with the look of a mother bear, only ceding her position once she saw it was Otabek and not that _ Aleksander_. Yuri was on the verge of tears and shaking, curled up over himself as though he wanted to disappear. So he whisked the blonde away and made Amanet leave once they were back at his loft. Yuri needed a sanctuary to retreat to, and now that his go-to place – namely, the dance studio – was no longer an option, Otabek readily offered up his flat as a temporary substitute. 

Otabek hisses as he accidentally brushes his knuckles against the hot skillet with the seasoned chicken. The stinging burn jolts him out of his revere and reminds him to shelve his wrath for now. He has to take care of Yuri.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

Speak of the sun and it shines, as his mother likes to say. Yuri has dropped into one of the chairs around the redwood table, his grandmother’s afghan around his shoulders again. He’s looking better – the shaking and almost-tears are gone, and his voice is soft but steady. Otabek merely gives a noncommittal hum as he flips the chicken.

“My mother insisted I learn a bit before I moved from Kazakhstan. I can manage a few dishes, but I can’t hold a candle to her cooking.” Yuri is quiet, content in just watching Otabek move around the kitchen as he cooks and makes them both a plate. 

The older man is struck with an odd satisfaction, seeing Yuri so comfortable in his home, even if the circumstances leading up to this moment were undesirable at best. Watching the blonde fall asleep next to him and seeing him eating his cooking across from him is all well and good, but knowing that Yuri is okay letting Otabek care for him is a balm to the ire in his soul. Yuri’s normally as independent as they come and utterly refuses to have anyone see him as weak. The blonde’s acceptance of Otabek’s help makes the older man happy for reasons he doesn’t really know. 

This week, he’ll be able to personally make sure that Yuri will be okay. He can distract his friend from his troubles, if only for a little while. And if Yuri wants him to stand beside him as an ally, he can do that too. He just wants Yuri to know that he can rely on him, so for now he’ll start with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, no music to post this time around! A few chapters are like that, but not many, I think. 
> 
> Also, now we see why we don't like Yuri's father. Like, at all.
> 
> * * *
> 
> On that note, a tip from someone who has had to go pick someone up from an unsafe situation. Feel free to skip this and move on, but I do think that this is important information to pass on. 
> 
> If you do need to disappear out of fear of harm, tell a family member or a close friend so that everyone else doesn't panic and call the police to search for you. That can end with a possible kidnapping charge. If you run to a hotel or something like that, ask them to list you as 'Unlisted' - then, as far as anyone outside of you and the receptionist is concerned, you aren't there.
> 
> Likewise, if you're protecting someone and a friend or family member who is genuinely worried about them asks, just say that the person is safe, don't give locations if they don't want you to. If you aren't sure about the person asking, say that you haven't seen the person recently to give you time to confirm if that person is safe to reveal more to.
> 
> And finally, if you see those 'Missing' posters on social media and you happen to know where that 'missing' person is, be careful to look for contact information and check if the contact is a safe person. Some kidnappers or abusers put up posters like those to look for people who have escaped, and you might unwittingly land the victim back where they started.


	9. Just Like Fire (Warriors Light ‘Em Up), P!nk ft. Fall Out Boy, Imagine Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri low-key gets talked into shenanigans, and Otabek high-key enjoys watching said shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Just like fire, burning out the way_   
_If I can light the world up for just one day_   
_Watch this madness, colorful charade_   
_No one can be just like me any way_   


Yuri is hanging upside down on Otabek’s couch, knees over the back rest and hair pooling around his head on the floor, glaring up at the smirking face of JJ Leroy.

“Beka, I’m going to toss your pianist out the goddamn window,” he growls as he flips himself over the couch, aiming for his heel to connect with the Canadian’s head. Said Canadian laughs and sidesteps, infuriating the blonde even more as he lands on his feet on the hardwood floor. Mila, who was sitting beside him, smothers her own laughs and throws her long legs over the seat he vacated. 

“If you do, make sure you drop him in the trash,” Rita happily chirps from besides Otabek and Amanet. The two string players are tuning their instruments, odd notes flowing out every so often as Otabek shoots Rita and Yuri a glance that manages to be amused and exasperated at the same time.

“Come on, blondie. You’ve been hanging around us long enough that people actually think you’re part of the group.” JJ slings an arm over Yuri’s head, and Yuri shoves an elbow back, catching JJ in the ribs. It’s not enough to really hurt, but to Yuri’s annoyance he doesn’t take the hint. 

“Don’t force him if he doesn’t want to,” Otabek calls over his shoulder from his workbench where he’s in the middle of playing with a few tracks. The Russian is grateful that at least Otabek is on his side. Otherwise the three other members of this band would drive him insane.

It’s a Sunday in the middle of February. Yuri had wanted to see Otabek and chill, but had run into Mila on the train of all places. She, of course, had to tag along, because that’s just what she did. While mildly irritated, Yuri was willing to let it slide because Mila could be fun when she wasn’t being a helicopter guardian. She tended to behave when Otabek was around because he’s the only real friend Yuri has and she’s genuinely pleased that he’s making friends, and she’s admitted as much. Besides, there were many other days over the past month where Yuri would just randomly show up on Otabek’s doorstep, sometimes letting him tag along to gigs and performances and letting him stay the night if Katsudon and Nikiforov were going to be taking over his flat. The Kazakh never turned him away, and Yuri abused that knowledge with minimal regret.

Today, though, Mila and Yuri had walked into Otabek’s flat to see the rest of his band there, and Yuri had felt the urge to put his head through the wall. His chilling day with Otabek was officially out the window. Mila and Rita hit it off faster than a baseball batter (unsurprising but no less exasperating), and between the redhead’s teasing and JJ’s asshole-ish self, Yuri found himself caught in a never-ending web of jokes at his expense.

Apparently Otabek and the others are playing at some charity concert later on today, so they had all crashed at the twenty-year-old’s after his late-night gig yesterday in order to get some practice in this morning. Normally, Yuri would be excited for a performance. That means hanging with Otabek, which is always fun even if it means watching his friend from afar, and swapping gossip with Rita during her breaks and hearing great music for hours. He can deal with JJ normally, for his friend’s sake, but the Canadian chose today to be an insufferable ass.

He actually suggested that Yuri and Mila come and _ dance _ for them. 

“Come on kitten, it can’t be that bad.” Mila is giving him these disgusting hopeful puppy-dog eyes. She was taken with the idea as soon as JJ opened his big fat mouth. She lives to perform for audiences, loving the rush she gets from praise.

“Someone actually asked me where ‘our little blonde groupie’ was. I think she likes you,” JJ teases. Amanet perks up from putting rosin on his bow and Yuri does _ not _ like the glint in the German’s eye.

“Oh? I think I know who you’re talking about JJ. I can get her life’s story in a day if you want.”

Yuri lets out a strangled groan to cut of Leroy’s reply and stomps over to Otabek’s bed, throwing himself down onto the thick duvet and burying his face into a pillow. He doesn’t care about some fangirl. His day has already gone from barely tolerable to near unbearable; the only consolation he has right now is that he doesn’t _ have _ to dance at all today (Lilia might just kill him one day, he swears) and that he can watch the band make magic with their fingers. But with every comment from JJ and Mila and Amanet at times, he’s considering packing up and leaving. At this point it’s only Otabek’s presence that’s keeping him here.

He feels the bed dip as Otabek sits on it. “Don’t let them get to you, Yura,” he murmurs. “You know we won’t make you dance if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Yuri sighs. Otabek’s band mates have had crazy ideas before, and have on more than one occasion tried to drag Yuri into them, but if he really sets his foot down they won’t force him. It helps that Otabek is quick to back him, and that Rita is easily swayed.

When it’s just him and Otabek and the music and the dance floor, Yuri finds himself effortlessly drifting into that sweet spot of peaceful focus free of worries about form and presentation, and he _ enjoys _ dancing. With Otabek it’s easy to forget the hard part of ballet. It’s those times when he wishes his mother was still alive so that she could dance with him, so that they could share those little moments of contentment. It’s when other people are watching that the mutinous critic hiding in his mind comes out, and that desired peace becomes elusive. He can’t imagine dancing something unpolished for hundreds of people on the spot. 

Otabek’s fingers are rubbing against the back of his clenched fist. It’s subtle and private, hidden from the rest of the loft, and it’s enough to ground Yuri. “Do you want me to dance?” 

The older man cants his head in acquiescence. “I enjoy watching you dance, Yura. I wouldn’t say no to another chance to see it, but I won’t press you if you really don’t want to.”

He can be no help sometimes, Yuri swears. Absurdly, now he feels _ guilty _ about not dancing. Which is _ dumb _ , because Otabek literally _ just said _ that he doesn’t want to pressure him. _ Ugh_.

“Make me a piece, then.” 

Otabek’s eyes dart over to his own, and Yuri buries his face back into the pillow to hide the blush he’s sporting. “I’ll only dance if you make me a piece. And it has to be badass and epic.” He’s mumbling into the pillow and Otabek probably can’t hear him, but he feels more than sees Otabek huff a small laugh and nod. 

“Alright Yura. But I won’t let you hear it.”

…_ What _?

Yuri springs up with a roar of outrage, hitting Otabek with the pillow and flinging in every curse he knows for good measure. Said man just laughs outright at the blonde’s wrath and moves back to his workstation, ignoring the strange looks they’re both getting from their friends and pulling on a pair of headphones and falling into his work mode. Effectively leaving Yuri to the mercy of his band mates.

Yuri really dislikes his best friend sometimes.

* * *

Between Amanet’s Escalade and JJ’s Civic, they all manage to shuttle themselves and their instruments and technology over to Queens Theater in Flushing Meadows Corona Park. He and Mila are split up between the two cars, because they both wanted to grab comfortable dance clothes (he absolutely _ refuses _ to attempt an _ arabesque _ in skinny jeans, and the rubber soles of his sneakers will only add extra friction if he attempts _ pirouettes_), and then he’s settled next to Amanet’s cello and Otabek’s new turntable and staring out the window, watching the skyline of New York City fall behind them. 

It’s the first time Yuri’s ever been outside of the city, and he’s slammed with a mix of familiarity and culture shock. Queens is apparently a melting pot of every nationality under the sun, so he sees Italian restaurants next to Irish pubs and Indian boutiques between Chinese beauty parlors and African hair salons with delis on corners and about a billion churches littered everywhere. Amanet used to live out here, and is happily playing tour guide to a gobsmacked Yuri. 

The cabaret they’re led to once they arrive is dark, a conglomeration of royal purples and indigos and blues, with niche lighting that casts tones of green in odd shapes across the low stage. The room can’t seat more than sixty people, which is a small relief for Yuri. He doesn’t know how he feels about the tiled floor; both he and Mila exchange a worried glance when they walk over the grout. If they’re careful with where they step, they won’t ruin their shoes. Probably. There’s a reason any good dance floor is waxed enough times to shine, after all. They rush to the back and change while the others run through their sound check and set.

The charity fundraiser that Rita’s father managed to land them is an arts awareness exhibition. Otabek’s band isn’t the only street act performing, but they’re amongst the company of professional string quartets and singers and a five-person acapella group that has a Grammy or two. Yuri can hear why – the five of them are practicing some pop medley, and they sound as though they had a full band behind them. His eyes flick over to some other dancers in uniforms that Yuri can recognize as belonging to The American Ballet Theater. Next to them is another street act, a lone violinist with a loop pedal to rival Amanet’s.

Yuri clamps down on the sudden bout of nerves rearing its head. This is a huge gig for his friends. This is them asking for people to recognize their talent and support them. He doesn’t want to mess it up for them. 

Mila is suddenly next to him, tugging his arm incessantly. “What’s wrong kitten?” she asks in a low voice. He can’t meet her eyes, so he turns and busies himself with pulling out his dance shoes from his bag.

“Maybe we should just do an old piece we know…” he murmurs, then yelps when Mila pinches his arm. He answers her glare with one of his own, because _ fuck _ that hurt.

“Not an option, kitten. They asked us to dance because they want _ us _ , not Lilia’s choreography.” Her voice is firm; she’s not budging on this. “You and Otabek do this stuff all the time, right? Just do that again here. Dance for _ you _.”

Yuri doesn’t have the chance to respond, because the door opens and tens of people filter in. Yuri is greeted with the sight of jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, with only a few of the suits and dresses he was expecting. The people mill about, and he catches a glimpse of a Guess tag on a denim jacket. They may dress casually, but these people are from money.

When everyone is seated, the host appears and welcomes everyone, spilling some generic speech about preserving the arts and cultivating the newer generation. Yuri barely registers any of it. He and Mila still don’t know what songs Otabek has picked for the evening. They’re only doing three pieces, and one of them is the piece Yuri had his best friend working on all afternoon, but the familiar anxiety of not knowing the music is back. 

The ABT dancers are first, flooring the older generation with their rendition of _ Wade in the Water_, an Alvin Ailey classic. He finds himself watching them move, their exaggerated arches and expressive faces. It’s an odd mix of technique and wildness that they make work, and it’s captivating. Yuri makes a mental note to sign up for extra classes with both companies. Maybe some new instruction will do him good. 

As the other acts go, Yuri catches the musicians leaning forward with rapt attention. It’s mildly amusing watching the different emotions playing across their faces as they’re confronted with a slew of new ideas and different arrangements. He’s certain Otabek made note of a few of the mixes the acapella group did, and he caught JJ balking at a high note one of the singers made. Amanet and Rita are both air-playing their instruments during the quartet’s set. They all know that they can be better, so they’re using this time to soak in as many new ideas as they can. The surge of respect and pride Yuri feels for them is unexpected but not unwelcome.

And then it’s their turn.

He and Mila take up residence on opposite sides of the stage and wait for their intro cue, even though they don’t know what it is. Amanet and Rita are hooking up their electric strings to the amplifiers, and JJ is setting up a third string setting on his keyboard. Otabek pulls on his headphones, and for a split second he locks eyes with Yuri, shooting him a subtle thumbs up and a sly smirk.

Oh. Okay, so that’s how this is gonna go.

He makes eye contact with Mila, mouthing ‘copy’ to her. She nods and mimics his opening pose. When Rita and Amanet drag their bows across the strings, Yuri moves slowly and deliberately, matching the gentle and solemn intro, giving Mila enough time to mirror his movements. He’s never done this before, had someone rely on his movements so in-the-moment, but Mila is a quick study, and they fall into a symmetry that Yuri is pleased with for a first-time attempt. When they freeze, he whispers the name of the song into her ear so she’ll at least know what to expect.

And then Otabek starts the pounding drum beat that he first heard in the Times Square 42nd Street subway, the same driving staccato that caught his ear the first time. Rita and Amanet start their duel, leaving Yuri and Mila to pick sides and fight with their dance as well, Yuri falling in league with Rita's melody and Mila aligning herself with Amanet's lower harmonies. Otabek and JJ are background fillers, adding flavor to the music that was lacking the last time Yuri heard the group present this piece. The bass and melody overtake Yuri’s senses, blacking the crowd out for him. It's been a while since he's performed something that isn't a stepping stone to his mother's stage, and he lets that uneasy freedom loose with every step he takes. As he passes Mila, he hears the words _ 'chaines' _ and 'circle', just barely catching her meaning seconds before Amanet coaxes a run out of his cello. He and Mila throw themselves into the fast turns, turning into nothing but blurs.

Mila grants him a short solo, freezing in a high _ cambré arrière _ and turning all attention to him, so he gets a bit bolder and pushes the limits of the area they've been given to dance in. He lets the music guide him, flitting in and out of the shadows before returning the favor with a bow in the redhead's direction. Yuri faintly hears JJ murmuring the words to the verse under his breath, not daring to drown out Rita. Otabek is pulling his volume down anyway. Yuri and Mila turn their moves into a call-and-response challenge at the next chorus, each set of moves harder than the last, neither willing to be outdone. It turns chaotic during the bridge that Rita loves so damn much, and Yuri is flying to the notes her violin screeches out while Mila picks up Amanet's heavy bass line. 

Rita's gone off again, Yuri can tell by the way her fingers are flowing over the strings, and she's tiring him out. His chest is burning with exertion from trying to keep up with her keening solo, and his arms and legs feel like they're on fire. The song isn't over yet though, and he doesn't want to stop. There's so much _ more _ burning at his fingertips and it needs _ out _ . He's pressing every move he makes with a desperation echoed in the moaning violin, and surprisingly the critic is back, needling him about his form (or lack thereof in this case), but Yuri doesn't really care. There's an itch under his skin to make these people understand _ something _ that even _ he _doesn't know how to articulate, but he has to make them understand all the same, so he lets his dance talk for him. Someone will understand.

The end of the music is abrupt, and Yuri is shocked out of his final pose by the sound of thunderous clapping and Mila’s hand in his, dragging him down for a bow. 

Otabek materializes on his other side as Rita makes the obligatory blurb about their little ragtag group, even introducing Mila and him as though they were always dancing to odd remixes of pop songs. He hears the appreciative murmurs from the ABT group at the mention of Lilia’s name. It’s Otabek’s hand on his shoulder that makes him feel proud. 

Yuri bows out for the next piece, leaving Mila to handle Rita’s new Lord of the Rings medley with JJ playing backup and Amanet taking over the DJ stand for a bit. He and Otabek will take the final piece by themselves. 

“You’ve improved, Yurio.”

Yuri spins around and comes nose-to-chest with Viktor Nikiforov. 

“That’s not my name. What are you doing here old man?” he grouses. _ Of course _ Viktor would be here. He’s a sucker for these things, always looking for new ways to surprise his audience. If it weren’t for the fact that he was once a _ principal _ in the same company as his mother he would have left the silver-haired man already.

Viktor is unperturbed by Yuri’s ornery greeting. “I always come to the arts cultivation fundraiser. One must keep an eye out for new talent, you know.” He’s watching Mila soar through a _ grande jeté _ while he speaks. “You got a bit sloppy towards the end, there. Keep an eye on your extensions next time.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Yuri _ knows _ he let his form slip at the end. After the adrenaline high has worn off, he’s left picking apart every move he can remember doing (because he definitely can’t remember parts of the dance _ he just did_). It’s beginning to scare him that he’s unable to recreate dances that he’s just done, especially when it’s freestyle pieces. 

Viktor _ humm_s with that stupid ever-present smile on his face. “I find that it helps to know what you’re dancing for, so that you don’t lose yourself completely to the dance.”

_ What_? That makes next to no sense. Yuri thought he was _ supposed _ to lose himself to the dance. To let it run wild and untamed by rigorous rules. He wants to kick the wall in frustration, but settles for blowing an annoyed huff through his hair. “That makes no sense old man.”

“No?” The older man actually looks _ surprised _ at Yuri’s inability to comprehend what he’s said. “Hmm. Well, it’s not something that can be explained any more than that. You’ll just have to find out for yourself.” And then he’s walking away with Yuri staring after him in disbelief, jaw slack. Honestly, if Viktor was trying to help him, he’s done a shit job at it because now Yuri’s more confused than ever.

More applause signals the end of their group’s second piece. Mila is winded as she slumps into a chair besides him, waving off his concerned look with a ‘go on tiger, give them a roar’. It’s annoyingly Mila, and it’s the boot to the ass he needs to meet Otabek by his DJ table. 

“You sure you can’t give me a hint to the music Beka?” he hisses. He still has no idea what his friend made for him; the Kazakh took meticulous care to keep the piece under wraps. Otabek merely smiles.

“Don’t worry Yura. Just set this stage on fire.” And then he starts the music with no warning.

Yuri barely knows what song is playing, the low female voice something he’s unused to. And to top it off, apparently Otabek chose a mix for their final, because he can hear the guitar of a different song faintly. He forces himself to zero in on the lyrics, interpreting them as best as he’s able in the moment. It leaves him a beat behind, a step too slow, but no one will notice so long as he doesn’t call attention to it. Besides, he’s here with music and a dance floor, and all he has to do is move. There’s no choreography for him to get wrong anyway, so he ignores the feeling of messing up as the chorus comes through.

Oh, so that’s what Otabek meant.

Whatever the hell this song is, Yuri is in love with it. He’s going to make Otabek give him this mix if it kills him. He never would have listened to the lyrics of this weird mashup in any other circumstance, but every word resonates with something inside him. Otabek is right, all he has to do is set this stage on fire. This song is defiance and rage and renegade, a dare for people to challenge him. Yuri turns himself into a hurricane of gold and black. He knows what he wants to say this time. It's the roar that Mila told him to let out. 

He will not be held back. He said he was going to be the best, and anyone who stands in his way will be in for the surprise of their lives. 

Oh, this is so much fun. Yuri finds himself laughing out loud and arbitrarily decides that the little square floor he’s been given is far too small to contain him. A step and a leap later, he’s on top of one of the few vacant tables, giving a few _ fouettés _ before jumping down into the audience. He’s quicksilver, darting between the chairs and tables and bodies scattered around. They can’t stop him, and they damn well know it. If anyone tries to, he’ll burn them. 

Yuri finds himself staring down the audience at the end with a cocky grin across his lips. They got the message. With or without their help, he’s going to get to the top.

He turns and glances at Otabek, beckoning him forward, then grabbing the older man’s hand when he hesitates. They bow once, twice, three times to thunderous applause. Rita runs out of nowhere with Mila in tow, Amanet and JJ following, and they all bow again. It’s slightly too warm with so many people around him, but Yuri doesn’t care. He’s buzzing with energy and drunk on adrenaline.

Yuri looks for Viktor in the sea of heads, picking out pale silver easily. The old man is clapping with that stupid smile on his face. He’s giving Yuri a wink and a nod. He’s looking at Yuri as though he’s found a gold coin in a mess of pebbles – it’s a look that says he’s witnessed one of the best performances he’s seen in a while. 

Otabek is still holding his hand. His best friend looks uncomfortable, probably unused to such attentions from the crowd, so Yuri pulls his hand away to sling his arm over his friend’s shoulder. Otabek gives him a weary sidelong glance and lets Yuri drag him around. 

“You’re giving me that mix immediately,” he quips, earning a quiet laugh from the darker man. 

“It was yours to begin with, Yura.” 

Yuri pokes out his tongue. “Damn straight.” Because it’s badass and epic and it’s a piece of Otabek that’s nothing short of amazing. He really should hound the older man to finish his promotion piece already, because he needs that level of awesomeness to mark his graduation. Yuri makes a habit of surrounding himself with like-minded people, and he is certain he’s not the only one racing to be the best.

_ They’re _ going to get to the top. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm not normally one for mashups because they normally don't go that well, and even less enthusiastic about nightcore songs, but [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6V0QRSkWNHU) is straight fire. Also one of the only chapters where I attempt to describe dance with words, and I'm like almost one-hundred percent sure that I failed something fierce. Whelp. I suppose that's what happens when you try to describe something visual.
> 
> The Alvin Ailey dance is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fzq5kX6OT_s), and the acapella group is Pentatonix, because I have a bit of an obsession. Let me live.


	10. Rose Gold, Pentatonix/Still Alive, Caleb Hyles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lengths Beka goes to, y'all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Like a map, the story of our lives_   
_Couldn't fit in only black and white_   
_If it's true that legends never die_   
_Me and you could stand the test of time_   


It’s February twenty-eighth, and Otabek is nervous as all hell.

To be a bit more accurate, he’s a mix of nervous and excited, with a bit of fear sprinkled in there somewhere. Anxiety makes an appearance every so often, but it’s normally hidden by happiness. It’s an odd cocktail of emotions that keeps changing as the day wears on, and to be quite honest it’s wearing him out. 

Yuri’s birthday is the day after tomorrow.

Naturally, he’s elated that his best friend is a year older, pleased that he’s made it through another year (and that now Yuri is turning seventeen, he feels less like a child predator, but he’s never admitting that to _ anyone_). But he still doesn’t know what to get the blonde, and he’s worried that whatever he gets might not be good enough, and now he has less than twenty-four hours to get whatever _it _ is. Hence the anxiety-slash-fear-slash-nervousness.

Otabek walks down Mulberry Street, hands shoved in the pockets of his beloved leather jacket, eyes skimming through the numerous shop windows of Soho Mall. He’s been thinking about what to get Yuri for nigh on two weeks now, after Mila not-so-accidentally let it slip that Yuri’s birthday was coming up. Thus far, though, nothing seems _ right_.

On one hand, it’s incredibly easy to please the blonde. He loves cats – house cats, tabbies, strays, jungle hunters, all of them – and anything with so much as a hint of a feline will tickle Yuri’s fancy. Otabek has long since noticed the plentiful stash of leopard prints and tiger stripes flooding Yuri’s closet, and what isn’t cat print probably has a picture of a cat on it. He can honestly say that he’s ninety percent sure that Yuri owns a total of seven pieces of clothing that breaks that pattern, and four of them are parts of Yuri’s all-black ballet uniform.

Still, Otabek knows that Yuri’s love of cat-everything is obvious enough that literally everyone else who hangs around the younger teen will know and undoubtedly follow that pattern as well. He doesn’t want to follow the crowd on this; more than anything, he wants to get Yuri something personal, special, unique. He owes the blonde as much.

Otabek pulls out his phone from his pocket to check the time. It’s just past noon, so he has a bit of time before he has to meet with Rita and Amanet at 42nd Street. In any case, it’s lunchtime, and he’s hungry, so he changes directions and walks into a bakery restaurant, placing his order quickly. He pulls out his laptop while he waits and connects to the free Wi-Fi. None of the boutiques he’s seen today – or any other day, really – have anything good, so maybe he’ll browse Amazon instead. As much as he avoids mainstream media, Amazon has been his best friend for everything from bike parts to DJ equipment. Free two-day shipping is a godsend.

He absentmindedly takes a sip of his coffee as soon as it arrives and regrets it as it burns his tongue a bit. He doesn’t want to get Yuri any clothing (he doesn’t know the smaller boy’s size anyway), and things like cat-print home pieces are the next obvious choice. He flips through page after page of items that he considers then rejects for over an hour, finally resorting to taking a break and eating. Maybe he should just settle for something on the generic side. If he delays any longer, it won’t come until the second of March, which is a day too late for Otabek's tastes.

It’s on the seventh result page he checks after his break – a black titanium bar plate bracelet with a stainless steel curb chain, the words _Roar, Tiger_ etched in gold across the black band. It’s simple and elegant and bold and striking, just like the firestorm that is his best friend. Otabek grins to himself – Amazon Prime two day shipping really is a godsend. He doesn’t even hesitate and one-click buys it, only taking enough time to make sure it arrives tomorrow afternoon. He’ll have JJ pick it up on his way to his club gig at seven, where everyone is meeting for Yuri’s birthday. A bit of coercion will get the teen another staff pass. 

_ Oh, shit_. It’s twenty minutes to three, and he’s halfway across Manhattan. Thank God he had the foresight to leave with all his equipment this morning; while it’s uncomfortable toting around thirty pounds of tech, it’s better than Rita finding a way to keelhaul him for being late. As things stand, she might still do that if he doesn’t find a way over to Times Square _ now_. 

He pays for his meal and bolts out the door after shoving his laptop back into his bag, weaving through pedestrian traffic like water. He’s pulling his phone back out to check the bus times when it suddenly rings in his hand. Amanet. Go figure.

Otabek answers with “Have you left yet?”, to which the German scoffs and answers with “Just text me where you are. I’m on my way.”

The DJ shakes his head and glances at the street signs, texting his location to his friend. The silver Escalade pulls up to the curb ten minutes later, and Otabek jumps in the passenger seat, ignoring the honking of people behind them. 

“So what the hell were you doing out here?” Amanet shifts gears and tears off down the street. “You’re never out of your loft this early in the day unless you’re working, and you’re _ never _ late for a gig. Rita called me fifteen minutes ago in a frenzy because you weren’t there.” Otabek rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“I was out running an errand, lost track of time.” Simple answer, complicated background. The less Amanet knows the better. He’s not in the mood to explain why he just now managed to find a present for his best friend. One would assume that he’d have this done weeks ago. To admit otherwise is an embarrassment, plain and simple.

Amanet still gives him a sideways glance, clearly sensing that he’s missing something. “What are you doing for Yuri’s birthday? Aside from the exclusive club pass, that is.” 

Goddamnit. “Drop it, Aman.” It’s bad enough that the other man knows about his emotions concerning the blonde, but lately he seems insistent on reminding Otabek that Yuri still doesn’t know. “We’re just friends. Stop meddling.”

“I’m not meddling, I’m scheming,” the other man cheerfully counters. Otabek would have punched him if there wasn’t a danger of them crashing. As an alternative, he resigns himself to blowing out a steadying breath and pressing his thumbnail into his finger. His friends can be total assholes sometimes. 

By the time he and Amanet get down into the station, Rita’s pacing in front of the table and speakers she’s set up for Otabek. Her ice-blue eyes cut to them in a split second, and then she’s storming up to him and jabbing a finger in his chest.

“You are _ so _ lucky I need your equipment to perform, otherwise I’d have you tarred and feathered Altin.” She’s hissing at him, but Otabek doesn’t really care. Rita tends to be all bark and no bite when it comes to her rather creative threats, and today is no different. The real concern is that she’ll exact her revenge by playing like she’s lost her damn mind. Dramatic, yes, but it pushes everyone else through their paces, and almost always leaves the rest of them exhausted afterwards. Her form of retribution is almost as bad as some of the threats she comes up with.

Otabek merely raises his hands in surrender, moving to quickly set up while Aman tunes his cello. They’ll start a bit late tonight, but that’s okay. Five minutes of prep time is better than five hours of sub-par playing. 

By six-thirty Yuri joins them, sliding behind the DJ table with ease, carting drinks and fruit for them. He flashes the blonde a grateful smile and accepts the open water bottle handed to him. He’s been staying later and later every time they play down here, and he’s certain that Katsuki is giving him hell for it, but Yuri doesn’t seem to care. Otabek deliberately ignores how pleased he feels when Yuri chooses to spend his extra time with him, even if he is preoccupied with playing for the vast majority of it. 

Yuri’s rooting through Otabek’s bag for the spare headphones he’s started carrying around, hooking them up and slipping them on as soon as he finds them. The smaller teen shoots him a smug smile at his small laugh. The Russian enjoys playing around with his mixing equipment when he’s able; the fact that they’re live right now doesn’t even faze him. All the same, Otabek doesn’t really mind, because Yuri is a quick study and absorbs new information like a sponge. He’s certain that if Yuri so chose, he’d be able to match Otabek in a year. The only problem is that the blonde is so in love with ballet that it consumes much of his time and energy.

Amanet is giving Otabek a look that screams _‘just friends?’_ and he’d flip the German off if they were alone. Maybe Yuri’s rubbing off on him.

For the next hour, Otabek is hyper aware of Yuri’s eyes on him, watching his every move. He answers Yuri’s questions as best as he’s able, explaining what certain buttons do and what those lights represent and what these switches control, and he’s surprisingly content with how enraptured his friend is. More than once the taller man is taken by surprise when Yuri makes a suggestion that turns out to work nicely. His ideas are new and challenging and more likely than not a testament to his years of listening to classical pieces evolving with his exposure to their street playing. He’s enthralled with learning about Otabek’s hobby-turned-job, and Otabek knows that Yuri’s attention is difficult to earn. Sometimes that single-minded determination that the younger teen wears keeps him from seeing what’s happening around him. Although at times it works in Otabek’s favor.

It’s nearing seven-thirty when Otabek asks when Yuri plans on leaving. It’s still a Thursday night, and he has school the next day. Not to mention his flatmate will be worried about him. Yuri’s face darkens instantly and he kicks at the wall behind them.

“I dunno. Katsudon is staying at the old man’s place for the weekend. Something about their anniversary. Probably won’t go back tonight.” He can barely hear Yuri over the speakers, not that his friend’s mumbling is helping much. What he does understand is that it’s the weekend before his birthday and Yuri’s going to spend it alone, probably for the first time in his life. 

“Come and stay over then.” The words are out of his mouth before he has time to recognize their implication. Never mind that Yuri doesn’t have anything over at his place or that he’ll have to travel further in the morning. He just doesn’t want his friend to be alone.

Yuri is looking at him with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Eventually, though, he nods and turns back to the soundboard in front of them. Otabek releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Twenty minutes later the four of them packing up and carting everything topside. Rita’s going to some party, and her date is picking her up, so she helps load up the Escalade while she waits. With Yuri and Yuri’s bags as added passengers, packing becomes a game of Tetris-with-oddly-shaped-items, but they manage with the extra hands. Otabek and Amanet are securing down the speakers to the back seats when the Kazakh gets around to asking for the car again, this time for the whole weekend with a promise to drive it back to his house himself Sunday evening. Amanet stares at him long and hard.

“Dude, you are so whipped it’s embarrassing.” Otabek shrugs without bothering to deny it. He’s right; at this point he’s willing to try and reverse the Earth’s rotation if Yuri so much as jokingly suggests it, as fruitless of an endeavor as it will be.

“I can’t tell him yet, and you know that. I’ll just do what I can as his friend for now.” 

“And that includes stealing my car?” A brow arches over black eyes.

“Yes.”

"For seventy-two hours?"

"Yes."

It’s a long minute before Amanet gives him the keys. “You’re lucky you’re my friend, you ass. Don’t leave the tank empty and if you scratch the paint I’m coming for your life.”

Otabek just offers his friend a half-smile. “I won’t wreck your car, Aman. Thanks.” 

Said man just waves a hand over his shoulder and heads back down into the train station. Otabek should feel a bit worse about making him take public transport home when he owns a car, but he and his merry band of misfits have lost track of how many times they owe each other favors, and this is no different. The German has spent almost as many nights on Otabek’s couch as he does in his own home. Rita routinely slips him her cut of their earnings, saying she doesn’t need it with her high-paying job as a five-language interpreter. JJ owes all of them indirectly for setting him up with his girlfriend-now-fiancé a year ago. Otabek makes use of JJ or Amanet’s cars during the winter when he can’t use his bike. He knows if one of them needs his help, he’s there, and they have his back in the same way. 

Now, that circle has just expanded a bit to fit Yuri in.

Otabek catches a shock of gold leaning against the passenger door, waiting to be told where to sit. Yuri is in the middle of writing out a text, and he hastily sends it when Otabek comes around and unlocks the door. After a bit of prompting he climbs into the passenger seat, twisting around to look for Rita and Amanet. 

“Rita has a party to go to, and I stole Aman’s car for the weekend. I thought it better to drive you to your place and let you pick some stuff up.” Otabek easily reverses out of the parking spot and makes his way over to Yuri’s flat. After the number of times he’s driven Yuri home from school or from his loft, the route is second nature by now. 

Yuri is twirling his keys around a finger when they pull up to the curb. “Don’t get up, I’ll just throw some things into my bag.” 

“Bring a club outfit for tomorrow,” Otabek reminds him, to which Yuri gives him a nod. And then the smaller male is jumping out of the car, dragging his duffle with him and disappearing into the dark flat. Otabek hasn’t even waited ten minutes when Yuri comes bounding down the steps again after slamming the front door closed. They’re at his loft in twenty minutes.

Yuri wastes no time in collapsing on Otabek’s couch like he always does – knees over the back rest and head hanging down by the floor – and Otabek just nudges him over to sit next to him on the couch after turning on his Xbox. They spend all of two hours playing _ Gears of War _and eating pizza before Otabek insists they sleep because it’s nearing midnight. They’ve both been fighting off yawns for a while now.

Otabek lets Yuri use his bathroom first while he turns down the bed and makes some tea for himself. It’s a habit his mother drove into him from when he was young, and it always relaxes him before bed. So he’s admittedly unprepared for Yuri to come out of his bathroom in a loose pair of sweatpants slung low on slim hips and a navy wife beater several sizes too big for him, giving Otabek glimpses of creamy skin with every move the blonde makes. The entire scene is both heartwarmingly domestic and agonizingly arousing, and would have set Otabek on the path for a cold shower if Yuri wasn’t scowling at the world and pulling harshly at his hair. “What happened?” 

“My fucking hair won’t cooperate,” comes the angry response. Yuri’s fingers are twisted in his hair, probably making more knots than untangling them. Otabek sighs and forces the smaller boy to sit on the couch, slowly pulling thin fingers from the mess of spun gold. Comb in hand he takes a section and works from the ends up, teasing out the kinks little by little. Yuri surprises him by sighing and leaning into his touch.

“_Maмa _ used to braid my hair for me the night before my birthday or before a performance. She liked the way it left my hair all wavy afterward.” His confession is soft, and Otabek _ humm_s in response. He’s piecing together bits of Yuri’s life from little moments like these. Small fragments of time where everything is quiet and Yuri decides that he wants to reminisce. How his grandfather always made him _ pirozhki _ on performance days. How his mother gave him her first _ pointe _ shoes when he was seven, which he still has in a box on his desk. How he always stayed over at his grandfather’s house when his father was in one of his moods. Otabek cherishes these little moments of trust.

“I’m not the best, but I used to braid my sisters’ hair.” It’s an offer, but Otabek doesn’t want to pressure his friend. So when he finishes combing out the pale tresses he leaves his hands on the back of the couch. It’s the right choice, he reasons, because it takes Yuri a solid two minutes to find his voice again and whisper a broken “please?”

Otabek makes no comment on how fragile Yuri sounds. Yuri probably won’t like it if he calls attention to it, and he can’t imagine how many emotions and memories must be twisting inside his head, so he just picks the comb back up and parts Yuri’s hair down the middle.

“What’s your family like, Beka?” 

Yuri’s looking for a distraction, and Otabek is all too willing to give it. He talks about his younger years in Almaty as he works, telling as many stories as he can remember, even after he’s long finished weaving two simple plaits into existence. He talks about the time he rode his bicycle into a pond, and about the day when Amina got into a fight at school and he had to patch her up. He talks about his mother’s _ beshbarmak_, and about how his father loves to spoil Inzhu rotten. He talks about the first time he braided Amina’s hair like this, and how bad it turned out, and how both she and Inzhu forced him to keep practicing until he could do it right. He talks while he cleans up his loft and finishes his warmish tea.

When he comes back around the couch, Yuri is fast asleep. The boy must be exhausted from the long day; Otabek knows Yuri is up at five every morning and doesn’t sleep until well after ten at night most days. The small boy probably burns more calories than he consumes with all the exercise he does. He doesn’t stir when Otabek moves him from the couch to the bed, draping the afghan that he loves so much over his resting form. A phone slips from between the sheets and clatters to the floor, its tiger stripes obvious in the dim light. Otabek picks it up and roots through Yuri’s duffle for the charge chord he knows is somewhere in there. When he finds it he plugs Yuri’s phone into the wall and sets it on the bookshelf so that he can find it. Then he fixes the duffle he tore through, folding all the clothes back and placing them neatly inside and setting it at the foot of the bed.

It’s only then that he gets ready for bed himself, changing into his sleepwear before flopping down on the couch. Exhaustion is dragging at his own eyes as he sets an early alarm before finally giving in to sleep, wishing that he could hold his friend all night long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _The truth of life is simple, but it's hard to grasp_   
_The moment we define ourselves by what we give back_   
_And my prayer for you_   
_Is that when this mortal life is through_   
_Is you're surrounded by the ones who couldn't do it without you_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> Yo, [Caleb Hyles' version of Still Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGRDFU49Eog) is straight-up amazing.  
The extra rap, man, it hits you hard in the feels. And the man is a literal sweetheart. 
> 
> I have a knack for shoving a lot of stuff in a little bit of space, and that may or may not include some combination of twisting, sliding, rotating, and/or shoving things in small spaces. I call it 'playing Tetris with oddly-shaped items'.
> 
> Yo, happy early Thanksgiving to all of you who celebrate it!


	11. Cheap Thrills, Sia/Get the Party Started, P!nk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite Russian Punk is a year older, folks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I don't need no money_   
_As long as I can feel the beat_   
_I don't need no money_   
_As long as I keep dancing_   


Yuri wakes up to the smell of sandalwood and thyme, and it confuses him because his flat always smells like jasmine because of stupid Katsudon and his stupid tea. Wool tickles his nose, and he wonders if he fell asleep on the couch; last time he fell asleep at the table studying for his literature final he woke up with a thick knitted sweater draped over his shoulders and a mug of jasmine tea besides him. There’s an unspoken agreement between him and Katsudon that he never speaks of it and Yuri won’t bite his head off over the paternal gesture in return.

But this isn’t his bed, or his kitchen table, and it’s too quiet for his flat. He opens his eyes and sees that he’s sprawled across Otabek’s bed, under Otabek’s knitted comforter, in Otabek’s loft in Greenwich. He finds his phone on the bookshelf besides him, plugged into the wall. Fumbling for it, he turns it on and squints at the bright display.

Well, fuck, he’s celebrating turning seventeen at the end of today. 

And if he doesn’t get his ass moving _ now _ he’s going to be late, celebration or no. 

Yuri all but bolts out of the bed and skids around the bookshelf to look for his duffle bag, pulling up short when he sees his best friend fiddling around in the kitchen in nothing but distressed jeans, and his brain putters to a stop for a moment or five when said friend turns around. He knew Otabek was in shape, but _ goddamn_. Even _ he _ doesn’t have a fully-formed six-pack, and Yakov and Lilia have him exercising nearly eight hours a day. Yuri can’t find an inch of fat anywhere under that tan skin. And, _ fuck, _ is that the top of an Adonis Belt?

And then the smell of bacon hits him, and Yuri realizes that he’s starving. 

Otabek offers him a genial smile as he places a plate down on the table and nods over to the couch, where his duffle is waiting. “Morning, Yura. Go ahead and get ready, breakfast will be done soon. When you’re done I’ll drive you to school.”

Yuri doesn’t even think, launching himself at the taller man and wrapping him in a bear hug. “You’re the absolute fucking _ best_, Beka.” 

And he means it too. It’s one thing to listen to his bitching day in and day out, but it’s another to keep him company and let him sleep over and make him breakfast and drive him around and plan a club outing all for him. He swears he has the best fucking friend in the entire goddamn world. 

Otabek just laughs and hugs him back briefly before nudging him over to his bag again. Yuri doesn’t know why he can’t wipe the smile off of his face as he moves through his morning routine (way more slowly than he’s planned now, because his forty-five minute commute just got shortened to twenty or less), but his good mood lasts through the day. 

Otabek walks him up to his ballet class, waving at Mila from the doorway, and Yuri gives him one last hug and a ‘thanks again’ before scramming off to the locker room. When he walks back he’s tackled by a blurb of red and black that all but screams ‘happy birthday!’ in his ear. Yuri huffs an amused chuckle and lets her cling to him. Even Lilia offers a curt nod in his direction, her equivalent of birthday well-wishes. 

He floats through the routines he’s practiced over a hundred times with nary a misstep. The spring semester is well underway, and the intensive class is working on a new exhibition piece. His normal irritation during the cleanup of new pieces is absent today. He demonstrates the steps as often as Lilia needs him to without complaint – mostly because he’s too excited about tonight to care too much about his cohorts’ slow uptake. The entire four-hour class flies by, then the extra hour and a half of Lilia’s private training, and then it’s lunch before yoga.

He has near sixty notifications from Snapchat alone when he goes to call his grandpa, and an extra twelve text messages. His Facebook page has practically exploded, and Twitter is getting up there as well. Yuri rolls his eyes and swipes the notifications off of his screen to pull up his phone app. It’s already past seven in the evening in Moscow, so his grandpa should be home already. Nikolai answers after two rings.

_“Happy birthday my little Yurotchka.”_ Yuri nearly chokes on his breath at the warm greeting. 

“Hi _ Dedushka_. How are you?” 

It takes all of Yuri’s willpower to keep his voice somewhat calm so that he doesn’t worry his grandfather. But he _ really _ misses the old man. Nikolai was the only person he could go to when his house was no longer an option, and took his grandson in without question after the death of his stepdaughter. Yuri owes much of his upbringing to his grandfather, and while he’s gone a full seven months and change on his own (bar Katsudon, who is in his twenties) the undercurrent of homesickness swells into a riptide today.

He texts Otabek as soon as he’s off the phone with his grandfather. Their ten-minute conversation is nothing more than an excuse for Yuri to refocus and push the homesickness back down where it belongs. If the DJ sees through Yuri’s superficial texts, he doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, he plays along and distracts him with drivel about class and the plans for tonight.

Apparently Mila and the rest of Otabek’s band are included in tonight’s outing, a fact he was not made aware of but he finds that he really doesn’t care. And maybe a small vindictive part of him is okay with the unexpected guests because they’re all paying full admittance and he’s the only one with a free pass. But Mila and Rita are Yuri’s two go-to club companions when his best friend is working. Mila can easily keep up with him in the technical difficulty department, and Rita always has energy to burn. If he’s a firestorm, Mila’s a lightning strike and Rita’s a tsunami. The three of them wreak _ havoc _ whenever they’re set loose on a dancefloor.

He cuts out of his writing class early (he _ loves _ the fact that college professors don’t give a shit whether you’re there or not; he’s passing the class anyway), and he meets Mila in the locker rooms for another makeover. The woman is a fashion genius, and a really good confidant to boot, so he tolerates her pre-club dress up sessions in exchange for an ear to rant to and some good advice. She’s true to her word, and hasn’t spilled a thing they’ve spoken about between those grey lockers. 

He still threatens to asphyxiate her in her sleep with her _ pointe _ ribbons if she ever mentions that he’s ogled his best friend that same morning.

“I mean, sure I knew from jump he was built, kinda hard to ignore when I’m behind him on the bike, but he has _a full six pack,_ _бaбa_. I mean you could grind meat on it.” He’s throwing his arms around wildly, nearly catching Mila in the face. She’s laughing in amusement and disbelief. 

“You’re lying, kitten, you have to be. There is no way he’s hiding a case under that leather jacket.” She’s pulling Otabek’s braids from his hair (because he didn’t have the heart to take them out this morning) and running some temporary color through a few strands. She swore that this formula won’t last more than a few hours and that it will wash out with naught more than soap and water, but he didn’t trust her until she slathered some across her white sweater and promptly rinsed it out. He still can’t tell where the stain was.

“I’m serious. Couldn’t find any fat on him. I’m pretty sure he goes to the gym, but for the life of me I can’t figure out when.” Yuri hands her the tub of colored hair gel and watches as she scoops out a dollop. “I’m telling you, _ бaбa_, he is packing.”

“I refuse to believe it until I see it,” Mila declares as she runs a comb through his hair. “You’ll excuse me if I have a hard time reconciling the nerd you call a best friend with the hottie you’re claiming him to be.”

Yuri snorts and crosses his arms. “Why do you think I was so surprised this morning? I didn’t think so either!” he laughs. Sure, talking about his friend like he’s prime meat is on the weirder side, but Mila can’t say anything, so what the hell. If he can’t admit embarrassing stuff to her, then he’s shit out of luck, because she and Otabek are the only two people he would ever trust with this. And since this is _ about _ Otabek, he’s left with Mila. Still not a bad option, to be honest. 

Said redhead finally releases his head and hands him a mirror with violet fingers. Whatever the hell she used has left streaks of dark purple in his wavy platinum hair, and it feels just as soft as ever as he runs his fingers through. There’s barely any transfer, which he’s grateful for. That it washes out easily is a boon, because he’s the type of person to change his look by the day. He’s buying twenty cases of this crap in as many colors as they offer as soon as he can.

“You’re a bombshell. Go get changed and we’ll head out.” Mila’s already stripping and pulling out her own club outfit of shorts and a tube top in black and gold. Yuri hurries to comply after flinging his hair this way and that for another minute to find the perfect way to let his hair frame his face. He shrugs on his distressed skinny jeans and an army print shirt, flinging on a torn denim jacket on top. Five minutes later they’re running out the main campus entrance and all but diving into the familiar silver Escalade.

Amanet lets out a low whistle when he sees them. “Y’all look dangerous. I’m not sure whether to be scared or impressed.”

Mila’s smile is a touch too saccharine with an undertone of sinister, and Yuri just glares daggers at him. “Both, you idiot. Now drive.”

Amanet sniggers. “Sure, princess.”

“Don’t call me that!”

* * *

It’s a neat trick squeezing the large car into the alley behind the club, but Amanet manages while Yuri shoots a text to Otabek.

> _ We’re here. _
> 
> _ How long are you playing? _

He doesn’t get a response for a long five minutes, which is enough time for Rita and JJ to make an appearance.

> _ Just for two hours tonight. I called my replacement so he can cover the rest of my shift. _
> 
> _ Talk to the bouncer, I already gave him your pass. _

Yuri frowns but walks up to the bouncer standing guard at the front door. Otabek would normally come and get him himself. Yuri’s not sure what’s changed this time, but he does his best to ignore it. His friend pulled a lot of strings for tonight to happen, and he’ll be damned if he spends the evening upset over something as stupid as this.

The six-foot-five guard knows him by now, what with how often he’s tagged along with Otabek over the past few months, and he barely gives Yuri a glance as he hands him the familiar red ‘Staff’ pass before attending to the rest of his group. Slipping inside, he scans the room for his best friend. He’s not in the DJ booth and not at any of the tables, so he heads to the last place he can check – the back room.

The heavy security door gives way after a good deal of pulling, and Otabek’s voice carries over to Yuri, mixing with the ambient background music playing through the main club room. “… will, _ Əĸe_. I’ll call you back tomorrow; I have a shift coming up. Alright. Say hi to _ Aнa _ and the girls for me. Bye.”

Yuri’s eyes adjust to the dim room, and he sees Otabek pulling his phone away from his ear with jerky movements. He looks tense and uncharacteristically agitated, and Yuri wonders what that conversation was about, what could have pushed his normally composed friend to pull at his hair like that. 

“Everything okay?”

Otabek whirls on him, the stressed look on his face immediately giving way to an easy half-smile. “Hey Yura. Sorry I couldn’t come get you. My father called. You look great, by the way.” 

Yuri doesn’t miss the subject change, but lets it slide. It’s family business, and Otabek clearly isn’t ready to share. So he shrugs and says, “S’okay. Fedor let me through easy. You sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine, Yura. Honest.” Otabek is insistent, voice steady and calm, and he looks Yuri straight in the eye. Yuri can find nothing that would suggest that anything is actually wrong.

Yuri still doesn’t believe him.

But they’re friends, and Otabek has always let him talk about his problems at his own pace; the least he can do is give his friend the same courtesy. So he doesn’t press the matter and he turns and follows the taller man back out into the main club room, where the rest of their friends are milling around with the slowly growing crowd. 

“There’s the birthday boy!” JJ’s voice carries out over the din, and Rita pounces on him as soon as she lays eyes on him. Otabek herds them over to a reserved table on the mezzanine level and then leaves them to set up for his shift. It’s twenty blurred minutes of laughing and joking and lighthearted empty threats before Mila and Rita grab Yuri and meld into the throng of humans pulsing with the beat on the main dance floor.

Otabek is playing for the next hour and a half, so that means Yuri can dance to some good music for a while. He’s heard Otabek’s substitute, and in Yuri’s humble and completely unbiased opinion he’s trash. So while the good music is playing and he has his party friends by his side, he lets loose and dances until he can’t breath and his legs threaten to give out. The lights make him dizzy and the smoke chokes his breath and the press of anonymous bodies thrills him. He’s high on adrenaline, and it makes him bold.

He's long since lost track of time when firm hands snake around his waist and tug him closer to a solid chest rumbling with a low tenor voice. “Come on, Yura. You need water and a rest.”

Yuri turns around in his friend’s arms and slings his own arm over broad shoulders. “Don’t wanna. Dance with me Beka!”

But Otabek shakes his head and maneuvers him back to their table. “I don’t dance, Yura. You know that.”

Yuri rolls his eyes and reluctantly lets himself be guided back to their table, where he flops onto the bench and kicks his feet out. Otabek hands him a bottle of water that he sucks back greedily. Maybe it is time for a break after all. 

There’s a cake on the table and a myriad of drinks scattered around. Mila’s been back for a while now, but it takes Rita another ten minutes to reappear, panting and laughing like she’s lost her mind. She drops next to JJ and snags one of the sodas, raising it in a high toast that the others echo. “To our Russian Tiger! Happy birthday Yuri!”

Yuri’s certain his face is red as a beet. He shrinks back into the leather couch a bit, unused to such attention on him. One would think that performing some of the hardest sequences in ballet for thousands of people would make suffering through embarrassing birthday wishes from a small group of friends easy. Clearly not.

Thankfully, though, no one comments on his shyness. They’re too busy slagging on Otabek’s replacement and eating cake and pulling out boxes wrapped in colorful paper. Said DJ is merely reclining next to Yuri, one hand brushing against the back of his own under the table.

The extravagant event of opening presents leaves them wading through a sea of tissue paper and ribbons. Yuri now has a brand new tiger print backpack with metal studs (courtesy of JJ, and Yuri’s excited thanks isn’t forced at all), new noise-canceling headphones with cat ears that light up (from Rita, so that he’ll stop stealing Otabek’s), a new oversized hoodie with a roaring tiger on the back (Amanet’ doing, since he wrecked his old one helping them break down a few weeks ago), and a poster signed in his mother’s hand from Lincoln Center from when she was performing there (he might have heard Mila’s clavicle crack from the hug he gave her, but it could have been his voice breaking when he whispered ‘thank you’). 

It’s odd, feeling so spoiled. Yuri’s birthdays have always been spent with his grandfather, in their tiny apartment, with fresh _ pirozhki _ and a trip to his mother’s grave. He’s never had the opportunity to get gifts, let alone as many as he did today. But it’s nice, he supposes, hanging out with the few people he’s grown close to in the past half a year. 

Yuri glances at the silent man to his left. Otabek is the only one who didn’t give him a tangible gift; Yuri’s fully aware that Otabek’s unwavering friendship is better than anything he got today, as great as his presents are. It’s also arguably far more valuable than anything he’s gotten; Otabek and his altruism has become such a constant in his life that it’s hard to imagine life without him. So Yuri’s eyebrows shoot up when his best friend pulls a small box out of his pocket and hands it to him with that soft half-smile. 

“You didn’t have to, Beka,” he stammers out, because Otabek’s already done so much, he doesn’t need to do anything more. At this point Yuri is feeling undeserving; there seems to be no end to his friend’s kindness. He’s far too mean of a person to justify having such a great friend.

“I know. I wanted to.” Otabek presses the box into his hands, and Yuri flips back the lid to find a _ gorgeous _ black and gold bracelet sitting in the navy velvet. He forgets how to speak, because it’s _ so like _his best friend to find something that’s a perfect mix of functionality and personality. It’s small enough that Lilia won’t get on his case about it, but it’s striking against his pale skin. The metal is cool to the touch as he fumbles with the clasp on the chain, but when he gets it on he knows he’s never taking it off. 

The next thing he knows, he’s sprawled across Otabek, hugging him fiercely and burying his face in the soft leather of the older man’s jacket, their friends long forgotten. “You really are the best, Beka,” he murmurs. He doesn’t know what else to say, because ‘thank you’ is too simple. So he presses himself to the older man and hopes the words that he can’t find are transferred through the contact.

Solid arms come around his middle and hug him back. “Happy birthday, Yura.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I'm comin' up so you better you better get this party started_   
_I'm comin' up so you better you better get this party started_   
_Get this party started_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> What up y'all. Happy December! 
> 
> Okay so like first of all, just a heads up. I have finals coming up in the next 2.5 weeks, so please bear with me if a chapter comes out at a weird hour or a day late or something. And then I graduate on the 20th, so that's also a thing. But I will try my best to keep to my schedule of Wednesdays-and-Weekends. 
> 
> Other than that, who loves our boys?! Lemme hear what you all think! I live for Kudos and comments!


	12. Save the Hero, Beyoncé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the strong can't stand alone for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Who's there to save the hero_   
_When she's left all alone_   
_And she's crying out for help?_   
_Who's there to save the hero?_   
_Who's there to save the girl_   
_After she saves the world?_   


Yuri’s head turns to Otabek’s workbench, where the older man’s phone is tap dancing across the wood, making a great racket and disturbing his yoga stretches. He unfolds himself from his stretch and snags the small device, shoving it in front of Otabek’s face because his friend can’t hear anything through those huge headphones of his or see anything past the screen of his computer.

It’s alarming how fast Otabek’s face morphs from peaceful to worry.

Said man takes the offered phone with a quick ‘thanks, Yura’ and answers the call. “_Əĸe? _ What’s wrong?” he asks as he walks over to the small kitchen.

Ah. It’s family business if Otabek’s father is calling. So Yuri does the polite thing for once and slides his own headphones on and returns to his yoga stretches to give his friend some privacy.

That doesn’t stop him from watching from the corner of his eye.

Yuri can read bodies and facial expressions like a second language. Ballet has forced him to be fluent in nonverbal cues. Whatever conversation Otabek and his father are having is leaving his best friend more restless by the second. Otabek is tense all over, and his brows are pulled down low over his dark eyes. His normal poker face is gone, replaced by a troubled one. He paces the small kitchen space back and forth, and Yuri is mildly worried that he might crush the phone in his hand.

Yuri’s learned by now that Otabek gets like this when someone he cares for is in trouble. Like when Yuri’s father came poking around Juilliard a few months ago. He hid out in Otabek’s loft for a solid week until Katsudon called him to say that Yakov kicked the man off campus. The entire time he was here, Otabek would have these moments of quiet anger that would be gone the moment Yuri came near. Amber eyes would smolder with rage, and his jaw would clench enough to make a vein stand out, and his thumbnail found purchase in the side of his index finger every time. But once Otabek caught sight or sound of Yuri, all of those little ticks evaporated – not to say that Otabek grew lax in his vigilance. It’s April and he still constantly asks if his father made another appearance. He set Amanet the Super Spy on the hunt through the internet to confirm that Aleksander flew back to Russia. Yuri knows it’s all because he’s Otabek’s best friend, but he still worries for the older man, because getting so anxious at the drop of a hat can’t be healthy.

A smattering of violent Kazakh cuts through his headphones and Yuri jumps. Otabek _ never _ yells. And _ never, ever _ at his family. If Yuri can hear what he’s near-certain is Kazakh curse words clearly through his noise-canceling headphones and louder-than-is-healthy rock music, then something must be wrong.

He rolls up out of his final pose and waits for Otabek to hang up and toss the phone on the table. His friend looks near hysterical now, or maybe on the verge of tears. His knuckles are white from clenching his fists so hard, but his thumb nail is digging into his index finger hard enough that he draws a bit of blood. “Beka? What’s wrong?” This is not an ‘is everything okay?’ moment. Clearly everything is not okay. He just needs to find out what so that he can help fix it.

The break in Otabek’s voice makes Yuri’s insides twist unpleasantly. “Nothing, Yura. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Bullshit, Beka.” He’s not an _ idiot_, for fuck’s sake. “Something _ is _ wrong. I want to help. So tell me before I call your father myself to find out.”

Yuri really respects his best friend. It takes a special sort of saint to do what Otabek does with no complaints. For example, how he never presses Yuri to talk about his problems until he’s ready. Even though Yuri knows that Otabek is liable to silently worry himself up a wall and down the other side until he finally spills, he still waits until Yuri comes to him. He’s perfectly clear in making sure Yuri knows that he’s always around to listen, no matter how large or trivial the problem might be. And in the end, Yuri always goes to him with a full-on rant prepared. But he never pushes Yuri to speak before he’s ready. He won’t pressure Yuri into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

Yuri knows all of this. He _ wants _ to give Otabek the same respect, because it’s the least he can do in return. But holy hell, it’s hard. It’s so hard and he has no idea how Otabek does it.

It started at his birthday outing six weeks ago. When he found Otabek in the back room of the club on the phone with his family. At the time, he resolved to wait until Otabek told him. It happened again three days later. A text comes in that sets Otabek on edge for another four hours, and it’s so bad that Yuri can tell his friend is upset through his stilted texts. A week later JJ slips up and mentions something about Otabek’s mother back in Kazakhstan. Otabek isn’t pleased and changes the subject. More calls from Otabek’s father, more texts from his sisters, an odd letter or two that sends Yuri’s best friend into a tailspin every time without fail.

Not once does he ever mention it to Yuri. 

And it’s slowly driving Yuri insane.

So now he’s going to make Otabek tell him what’s wrong, because every time he sees his friend tear himself up and suffer in silence it_ hurts_. Not only because Yuri doesn’t like being kept in the dark – he doesn’t, not at all, but his own nosiness can take a backseat for once – but because it’s like Otabek doesn’t trust him. Otabek has had so many chances to confide in Yuri, and the fact that he never did and _ chose _ to fight alone is like a punch to the gut. He can be trusted. He can _ help._ He cares for Otabek too, and he’s done playing the bystander. 

“I’m sick of seeing you deal with whatever shit is happening alone, Beka. So _what the fuck is wrong_?” Yuri crosses his arms. He’s going to find out, even if Otabek gets mad at him.

Otabek swears again in his native tongue and pulls at his hair as he stalks to his bed, collapsing onto the thick covers. He won’t look at Yuri even as he pleads. “Yura, please, just let it go-“

“_No._” He holds up Otabek’s phone that he snagged from the kitchen table and unlocks it, pulling up the call history. It’s a threat, and Otabek knows it, because Yuri will actually call Otabek’s father if he’s pushed. “I’m not fucking going to ‘let it go’, because you’re my _ friend_, goddamnit. Let me help you for once, you asshole.”

Well, today is full of firsts. It’s the first time Yuri’s ever _ really _ cursed at Otabek. It’s the first time he’s heard Otabek curse _ at all_. It’s the first time he feels so damn protective of the older male. It’s the first time Yuri sees Otabek cry.

“I-I can’t tell you, Yura, you have enough to worry about.” Otabek’s voice is unsteady and his accent comes out thick. “I’d be a _ horrible _ friend if I threw all of my problems on top of your own. I can handle it, just … just let it rest. _ Please_.”

“Fucking hell, Beka.” Yuri’s going a bit cold inside, because those words sound _ all too familiar_. He drops onto the floor cross-legged in front of Otabek and presses a hand to his head, digging his fingertips into his scalp. “You really don’t get it, do you? You idiot. I can’t leave you to suffer alone. _ I’d _ be a shit friend if I didn’t try to help. The last time I saw something was wrong and did nothing, my mother died. I watched her get beat up every two days, and then starve herself or deprive herself of sleep the rest of the time. She said the same thing to me, you know. To _ ‘let things be, don’t do anything, I don’t want to worry you’_. She’s _ dead_, Beka. I fucking _ refuse _ to let something like that happen again. Not to you.”

Fuck, now he’s fighting off tears. But in that moment, watching Otabek struggle to fight off his concern, Yuri was thrown back to when he was seven and watching his mother press her thin hands to her trembling lips and hearing her voice crack. The numbing horror he felt back then is back tenfold, because it could be Otabek next. He can’t lose someone else close to him. Not again.

From one moment to the next Yuri finds himself pulling Otabek into a hug, clutching the solid form of his friend as tightly to him as he can. “Tell me, Beka.”

He’s never thought the word ‘frail’ could ever apply to his stalwart friend, but that’s what he is. He’s shaking in Yuri’s grasp and his breath stutters and his pulse is thundering an odd staccato under Yuri’s fingertips. But it’s his voice that tears at Yuri’s heart. He sounds so defeated that it makes his head hurt.

“_Aнa _ is sick. Something with her lungs. She can never breathe on her own. She’s been in intensive care for over three years. It got worse a month ago.”

Oh, god no. Yuri hugs Otabek tighter, willing what strength he has into his friend. Hands fist in the fabric of his practice shirt.

“_Əĸe _ is having a hard time taking care of the medical bills and my sisters,” Otabek whispers. “They just never stop coming. There’s more every month. _ Əĸe _ is already working so hard, and I can’t do anything to help because I’m halfway across the world.” The last words are bitter, as though he blames himself for being away when they need him.

“They wanted you to go to school here, didn’t they?” It’s the only reason Yuri can think of, and Otabek confirms with a small nod. 

“College is far too expensive. I can’t ask them to shell out thousands of dollars that they don’t have a year.”

Realization hits Yuri like a speeding truck. “That’s why you DJ. Because you won’t ask your parents for money. Fuck, Beka, why didn’t you ever _ tell _ me?” How has Otabek kept this to himself for almost a year? Wait, no – Yuri does some quick math in his head – Otabek’s been faced with this since he was in _ high school_. His mother got sick during his junior or senior year. Yuri knows Otabek wants a degree in music production, he wheedled that out of the older male months ago, but he always thought that he just enjoyed the freedom of not having to physically go to school. He had just assumed that Otabek took online classes whenever he felt like it. 

“Couldn’t burden you with it. You have so much to work for, Yura, I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Idiot.” Yuri gently flicks Otabek on the side of the head. Of course Otabek would rather struggle in silence. “You’re a hypocrite, you know.”

He feels the spine under his hands stiffen, and then Otabek’s trying to push him away. _ Hah_, he managed to get Otabek _ angry_. He grabs his friend’s hands and uses every ounce of strength he has to hold the larger man still. “You are a hypocrite, Otabek Altin. You bug me every day to tell you when something is wrong. You let me rant about every fucking thing under the sun. You let me bother you at every odd hour of the day, even if you had a late night and don’t wake up early. You let me invade your home whenever I feel like it. And _ you never say anything._ You don’t tell me to stop. You just take it all in stride with all of your own problems. If you think that I won’t happily and willingly listen to your problems and help in any way I can despite having to deal with my own shit, you are a bloody fool.”

Otabek’s face is red from crying, and maybe a little bit from being told off. “I …” He breathes out a long sigh. “Sorry, Yura. You’re right.”

Yuri huffs. “Of course I am, you ass. It’s my turn to help you now.”

Otabek offers him a watery smile. “Okay.”

Yuri spends the rest of the day gathering bits and pieces of the situation while he plays housekeeper. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s really going on, Beka,” he coaxes as he rummages around the cabinets in the kitchen for ingredients for his _Dedushka’s_ _pirozhki_. Because Otabek looks like he needs comfort food, and Otabek talks more when he isn’t being scrutinized.

Otabek came to New York when he was thirteen, in preparation for his high school career at LaGuardia High School. He helped his parents find the loft, a cheap find for the city, and he lived with a cousin until he turned eighteen. He studied music theory and music production on a near full ride.

At the end of his junior year, his mother contracted some form of bronchitis, and it never really got better, eventually leaving her lungs scarred. She lives with the rest of their family in their house in Almaty, but she needs a twenty-four-seven aid and an arsenal of machines and a battery of medications. The hospital bills for half a year are almost equal to a semester at Juilliard. Adding on home bills and other living expenses and tuition for Amina and Inzhu more than double that. Otabek’s father took up a second job so that his son could finish his last year. Otabek insisted on coming back home, but was shot down immediately. 

One of the students from his year had heard him plinking around in the sound booth of the auditorium during one of the last days of their junior year, and he had played to Otabek’s improvised beats. He just kept showing up after that, his ash brown hair in stark contrast to his black cello case, and Otabek just let him because it was easier than fighting to be left alone. One day, Amanet Medatov had proposed performing together for shits and giggles, and had to nag Otabek to agree. 

They did an original song for their senior year talent show, and JJ begged to join them when they took home first place. It wasn’t hard to convince Otabek and Amanet, because he had his own keyboard and a car and a pretty good singing voice. The group of three started playing in the streets after school for the rest of their senior year. It surprised them when they pulled over a hundred dollars in a week doing only sub-par covers, so they poured their hearts and souls into improving their crafts. They got better. They made more. 

Rita stumbled across them one day after one of her own concerts, stepping off the F train with her beloved Cherrywood violin on her back in front of three teen boys in faded jeans and graphic t-shirts. She simply pulled out her violin, tuned up, rosined her bow, and joined in the middle of a song – still in her formal black dress and heels and makeup and fancy hair. A passerby had pulled out their phone and recorded the odd group, and it went viral. They couldn’t shake her off after that. Their profits damn near quadrupled when all four of them played.

He graduated from LaGuardia as Valedictorian. That’s when his grandparents bought the bike that Otabek had been pining after for years, as a reward for hanging tough and working so hard. Somewhere along the line Otabek’s band mates learned about his home situation. Rita pulled through and landed him his first DJ gig, and the second one came through staff recommendation. It was a steady income that was reliant on his talent and not a college degree, so Otabek made it his business to work on his music. 

He never even bothered applying to Juilliard.

His father still sent money over every month for over a year, thinking that Otabek had started college already. Otabek simply sent it back with interest. By then he had been making enough to support himself and have a little left over. Eventually, the money wires just stopped coming from Kazakhstan. Otabek still sends money over every other month.

Back at Yuri's birthday outing last month, Kausaur Altin didn’t wake up at her normal time. Her aid freaked and called the hospital when she didn’t respond to her attempts to wake her ward. Good thing, too, because she was suffering from hypoxemic respiratory failure due to the scarring in her lungs. They admitted her to the ICU for oxygen treatment and preliminary x-rays of her lungs. She’s been recovering ever since, but it was a brush too close to death. They can operate to remove the majority of the scar tissue, but it’s going to cost a lot. 

Otabek and his father, Askar, have been fighting about Otabek sending more money over. All of those calls, the texts, the letters, they were all about the money that they don't have. As things were, the family could handle things fairly comfortably. There certainly weren’t any extravagant vacations to exotic islands, but they weren’t really wanting for anything between Askar’s checks and Otabek’s money wires. Now, though, with the medical bills taking an unexpected hike, the males of the family are staggered.

By the time Yuri gets the full story, the plate of _ pirozhki _ is almost empty and the sun has long since set. He’s already texted Yuuri to say that he’s not coming back to the flat tonight. He’s not leaving Otabek when he’s this messed up.

Said man is listlessly staring at some random spot on the floor. “I don’t know what to do. They’re my family.” His voice is steady now, probably because he stopped crying a while ago, but he still sounds so defeated. It’s starting to annoy Yuri, because his best friend should never sound like that.

“It’s not like you aren’t helping, Beka. _ You’re _ the one paying the rent on this loft. _ You’re _ buying your own stuff with money _ you _ made. And you’re sending money over there whenever you can. That’s not _ nothing_.” A few more reasons Yuri looks up to Otabek. He’s doing so much on his own. At twenty he has a stable job that he enjoys and is fully self-sufficient. Yuri can’t imagine doing half the things Otabek does on top of ballet. But-

“It’s still not enough.” Otabek cuts off his thoughts and Yuri resists the urge to sigh. He’s right, it isn’t enough. The surgery is an unanticipated cost that they just don’t have the funds for right now. 

And Yuri can’t magically summon twenty thousand dollars into existence.

Well, not yet anyway.

He has no fucking clue how, but he’s going to find a way to get that money, even if it kills him. Because it’s not fair that hardworking, kind, patient Otabek has to shoulder all of this on his own. Yuri remembers the ever-present anxiety that comes with a family member being sick for a long period of time well, and he didn’t have the cloud of paying for medical bills over his head. The older man put his own dreams on hold indefinitely to do what he can to help his family. The universe must have a sick sense of justice if this is Otabek’s repayment for being amazing. 

And the older man just _ let _ Yuri toss his own crap on top of that. He’s such a fucking _ idiot_.

Yuri just lets out the sigh he was holding back and hugs Otabek again. “We’ll figure something out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know that _Save the Hero_ uses she/her/hers, but the sentiment is still the same. So just kind of ignore the pronoun mis-match
> 
> Again, if you want the background on Yuri's mother, check out the [companion fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231854) that goes with this one. Otherwise, there should be enough details by now that you can guess at what happened even without reading the companion fic.
> 
> I'm sorry! I don't like hurting either of them! I promise things won't be awful forever!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Hypoxemic respiratory failure is a condition where you fall unconscious due to lack of oxygen - basically, you're a step away from suffocating despite still breathing. It's normally caused by some deficiency in the respiratory system. In this case, Mama Altin has scar tissue coating her lungs. 
> 
> Scar tissue, no matter where it is, tends to be tough and thick, which makes it hard for oxygen to pass into the lungs from the bronchial tubes and out to the capillaries. Typical treatment includes a high-percentage oxygen mask as an emergency measure. Long-term treatment can include medication to aid in oxygen absorption, collagen and/or steroid shots to the affected area to reduce the scar tissue, or surgery to physically remove excessive scar tissue. 
> 
> Since the first won't really solve anything in the long run, and the second is impossible without invasive surgery anyway, the option the Altins are considering is the tissue removal surgery. This kind of surgery can cost anywhere from fifteen- to twenty-thousand US dollars.


	13. Unwritten, Natasha Bedingfield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lengths Yuri goes to, ya'll...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Staring at the blank page before you_   
_Open up the dirty window_   
_Let sun illuminate the words that you could not find_   
_Reaching for something in the distance_   
_So close you can almost taste it_   
_Release your inhibitions_   


By the time May rolls around and Yuri’s first year at Juilliard is coming to a close, the sun is actually up and well above the horizon by the time Yuri steps foot into Lilia’s dance studio at six-thirty. It reflects off the goldenrod floor and pastel walls and gives the room an enchanting feel. It puts him in a mood to ruminate. 

He trails a hand over the _ barre _ and his mind floats back to the days when he and his _ Maмa _ would practice in her bedroom when he was little. He’d use her dresser as his _ barre_, and she would count him through countless stretches and sequences. He slides into an easy fifth position.

How many times must his mother done the very same thing he was doing now? How many mornings did she spend bending over a similar wooden beam? What was she thinking of? 

He vaguely hears the door to the studio open and close. There’s no chipper ‘good morning, kitten!’, so it must be Lilia. He pays her little mind and runs through his normal _ plié _sequence. She looks on in silence, correcting his posture when it slips.

“Everyone called _ Maмa _ a fairy,” he muses aloud as he drops into a _ grandé_. It occurs to Yuri, not for the first time, that Lilia must have seen his mother do these same stretches a thousand times. Lilia must have done them besides his mother a few thousand times more. He wonders how much he must remind the _ prima donna _ of her friend.

“Your mother had a unique ability to embody any character she had to play. She particularly enjoyed ethereal characters.” All of Lilia’s words are clipped, but Yuri’s become immune to their sharp edges. She always speaks like that, even when talking about one of the few people she respected and liked.

“Why those parts?” Yuri never got the chance to see his mother dance an official piece live. She left the Russian Ballet when she had him, and then devoted all her time to his upbringing. Even when she no longer needed to stay home and watch him because he was going to school, she worked part time at a store and spent her afternoons teaching him. Sure, he’s seen videos, but a recording will never replace the real thing. And thinking back on it now, Lilia is right. His mother danced to a number of light and mystical pieces. Odette, Giselle, Juliet, the Sugar Plum Fairy. 

“She understood their cores, empathized with the message they brought. Hers was a very bright view on life, despite it all. Everything had its charm and magic, in her eyes. She knew why she danced, and she used every piece she took to live it.”

His deadpan face must say that she’s not making sense. He gets a part of it, about getting at the heart of a piece, but something is missing. He doesn't know what. The pieces still feel lacking as he runs their choreographies though his mind’s eye. He doesn’t feel the spark that _ Maмa _ had in her when she spoke of ballet. He says as much to Lilia.

“You do not yet understand what you dance for,” is her simply vague reply. Yuri rolls his eyes behind closed eyelids. Yes, yes, yes, he’s heard that before, and it still means nothing to him in the same way a command in a foreign language does. He arches back in a high _ cambré _and prepares to move into his center floor stretches.

Lilia huffs a long-suffering sigh and closes her eyes. “Why are you here Yuri Plisetsky? I dare to guess you want to keep the memory of your mother alive, for one thing. So you come to New York to learn to dance under her closest friend. That is why I gave you _ Arwen’s Vigil_. Now you must learn to live it’s message through dance.”

All at once a thousand shards twist and consolidate into a detailed stained glass window. Yuri _ gets it _now.

He wants many things. For his _ Maмa _ and _ Deduska _ to be proud of him. For Lilia’s approval. To be the greatest like his _ Maмa _ once was. To prove to his father that he is stronger than he thinks. To show that his father missed something great in both him and _ Maмa. _ To help Otabek, no matter the cost. To stay by his side as long as he can. So many desires for better things, so much hope for something more than what he has, such desire to make them realities. He’s never bothered to stop and count them all, and he doesn’t think he can even if he tried. It’s overwhelming. He _ gets it _, because now the choreography is different even though it’s the same. Something has shifted, and he has so much he wants to say but no words to say it. But he can dance it. Lilia has given him that much, in her choreography. 

His hands come up and his feet glide across the polished hardwood before he really processes the fact that he’s moving. There is no uncertainty now. He knows each move, turns it into a word, a phrase, a line from the picture he can see. He speaks without words for the world to hear. 

He understands.

Yuri does not dance merely to dance. It is not just for choreography, or for a performance, or for extensions or lines or turnouts. It is not something he just _ does_. 

Yuri dances because it gives him hope. His _ Maмa _taught him that. When her world was dark and grey she danced for him so that he could see light. When he wants to feel closer to her, he dances to hold tight to her memory. When things overwhelm him, he dances to work out his frustrations and find peace. Dance is his natural second language, and now he knows what he wants to say.

It’s barely even five minutes from beginning to end, five minutes for his world to turn itself on its ear. He looks to Lilia through the mirror and can’t hold back the wave of pride surging through him when she nods in approval.

“Yes. You understand.” She dismisses him with another nod and Yuri doesn’t mind the early end to practice.

Classes are boring and monotonous after that. He gently packs away this morning’s revelation, setting it aside to come back to later. The rest of the world is waiting for him outside the studio doors. He has a final coming up for one of his general education classes, and the final showcase for Lilia’s class is in two weeks. Then it’s summer break, and Yuri will have hours to waste away in his flat in even more monotony. He needs to find something to do.

He thinks of Otabek. Otabek, who has faded more and more with every passing day. Otabek, who withdraws a little more each time Yuri sees him. Otabek, who is currently working another two jobs on top of busking and playing at his clubs. Otabek, who looks paler and more tired by the hour.

Yuri really is a shit friend.

He promised Otabek that they would find a solution. He didn’t mean for the other man to work himself into an early grave. The ass didn’t even let him know that he had started a radio DJ gig, or that he had started taking private commissions. He had to hear it from _ Aman_. Yuri heard the hours that Otabek was now working and very nearly kicked a trash bin into traffic. That self-sacrificing bullshit has gone too far. Yuri has to remind him to eat meals, if not pack him meals himself. He actually had to schedule in time to sleep on the DJ’s phone and then check on him that night to make sure he stuck to it. The fits of anger have gotten worse and more frequent, and it drains Otabek like water through a sieve. He’s making a little more money now, sending all of it over whenever he can. 

Yuri isn’t complaining because he’s feeling neglected (he will _ never _ admit that he is feeling neglected, that’s not the point _damnit_). He knows what Otabek is going through on some level, knows how hard it is to have someone you love in the hospital for an indefinite amount of time. He would pick up a job and add it’s wages to Otabek’s money wires if he could. No, Yuri is upset because Otabek is doing exactly what his mother did. He’s putting his own blood out to his family, and one day it’s going to kill him.

He would do anything to help his friend. Anything to keep him by his side. 

* * *

It’s three days later when things fall in line just a little bit. 

“Um, Miss Lilia?”

Yuri and Lilia both look towards the door, Yuri relaxing his _ developė._ A pretty young blonde ballerina hovers just past the threshold. She’s one of the _ corps de ballet _ that Lilia will be teaching over the summer, Yuri remembers. He saw her and her older brother in the background with their father during a class earlier in the semester. The boy, Anton, had some potential - Yuri remembers how eagerly he showed off for Lilia during what was supposed to be his extra practice time. 

The ballerina comes into the room, twisting a hair tie between her fingers at Lilia’s brisk summons. 

“Anton, his tibia is broken and his illium is badly bruised. Some bullies…” she trailed off, sniffling. Yuri unconsciously winces in sympathy. That was going to take forever to heal, and the poor kid might not make good on that potential if his surgeon is shitty. He would have liked to see how far Anton would have gone if not for those stupid closed-minded pricks. He’ll sic Mila and Amon on them later, make their lives miserable. Karma and all that.

Lilia is uncharacteristically drawn as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “He will be removed from the production, then.” The ballerina, Ashley, his mind supplies, fidgets nervously while whispering a “yes, Miss Lilia,” under her breath. Lilia takes a few more moments to gather her thoughts before confirming that Ashley will still be attending her summer session and sending her on her way. As soon as she’s gone, Lilia is stalking over to her bag and drawing out her planner and notepad, furiously scratching out things and rewriting others and checking dates and availabilities and contacts.

“Lilia-” Yuri starts. The _ prima donna _ tersely cuts him off.

“Not now, Yuri. This complicates things. Anton was supposed to play Fakir. I need to find a replacement now.” Yuri knows, and he promises the part of him that feels bad about this that he’ll go and visit Anton as soon as Lilia agrees, but he sees an opportunity. And damn him if he doesn’t take it.

“I’ll do it.”

The sound of pencil on paper stops.

“I’ll play Fakir. I have nothing to do over the summer anyway, I might as well get in some more practice.” He forces his hands to relax and his eyes to meet hers. He’s butting in on a production he has no right to demand a soloist part over, and he knows it’s a dick move to Anton and everyone else who auditioned and already started practice. There’s still a chance Lilia will say no. “I’ll audition if you want, come in earlier and stay later to make up for the practices I already missed.”

Lilia considers him. Then her book. Then him again. And then he’s got her. “You will send me an audition video for the part by the end of the week. I will bring it to the board, and they will consider it besides the rest of the audition videos for Fakir.”

He doesn’t even hesitate to say yes. 

* * *

It takes very little needling to get the information for Anton’s recovery room from his sister. Although it is a bit like pulling teeth at first, since Ashley is convinced that Yuri sent those goons after her older brother in the first place. It takes a lot of explaining and convincing for her to think otherwise, but once he does things become infinitely easier. 

Anton is sitting up in the hospital bed, a book in his lap and bags under his eyes. He glances up when Yuri enters, and the book closes.

“So you’re my replacement?” Not so much bitterness at him as resignation and sadness. It wasn’t Yuri’s fault, and they both know that. Yuri is just here to explain.

“I sent in an audition tape after I heard. Lilia never even mentioned her summer show to me, I had to hear it from your sister. This still sucks for you.” He means it. He doesn’t know this kid, but he means it. It’s completely unfair that Anton has to give up working with Lilia, unfair that he might lose the ability to dance before he really got started. 

“Good luck, then.” 

Yuri’s hood is still up, because fuck the hospital’s rules - he needs some kind of security. He doesn’t _ do _ sympathy. Anger is easy, being rude is second nature. Sympathy is uncharted territory, and he feels pretty vulnerable right now. He uses the fabric to hide just a little bit, even though Anton has gone back to his book. 

“I need to help a friend. He’s going through shit right now, and…” Yuri forces himself to breath. “And I will do anything to help him. This sucks, and if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have tried for your role.”

Anton doesn’t respond for a long while, and Yuri tries to use the silence to build his courage back up with the remains of the pride he’s torn down. “I’d like your help. Capturing the role. You have it better than I do, from the video Lilia showed me. And I need to get it down perfectly before June 18th.”

A blonde eyebrow raises a fraction of an inch.

“Your friend is lucky to have you, going through all this effort for him.”

Yuri takes his time and breathes in the stupid yoga pattern Katudon taught him. It’s the other way around, really, but Anton doesn’t know that. He doesn’t deserve Otabek, he’s just trying to help his best friend.

“Did you even ask about what being in the production will entail?” Anton gives him a wry side glance. “Fakir’s part isn’t easy to learn. You’re already more than two weeks behind, and it will take some time to catch up to what I know before you can join the _ corps _ and other _ soloists_.”

“I know,” Yuri all but growls. “I’ll make it work. I already asked Lilia for extra practice time. I’m doing an extra 18 hours a week.”

Anton lets out a low whistle. “Alright, I get it. When do you start? Your pay is going to be through the roof.”

_ Oh shit, I get paid for this. _ Yuri had completely forgotten about that part, shelving it in favor of focusing on juggling things around to make time for learning and training. “As soon as possible. This Monday, if you’re released by then.”

The other blonde just stares at Yuri for a while. “And you want to learn the entire part by June 18th? Perfectly? In a month?” His incredulous tone implies that it’s not going to be a cakewalk, and Yuri isn’t expecting one.

“Yeah.”

A shrug. “I can move around the hospital in a wheelchair starting this weekend. Learn what you can from Miss Lilia and I’ll show up when they let me out past hospital limits.”

The Russian releases a breath. “Thanks.” He thinks for a second. Depending on Anton’s general health, being let out past hospital limits might not be soon enough. Doctors are paranoid assholes, and will happily keep the younger boy here longer so that they can charge him more for his stay. Yuri _ doesn't have that kind of time_. There has to be some way for them to work on presentation without raising the doctors’ hackles. They need room. “Is there a place in here with enough space for me to practice?”

Anton closes his eyes and thinks for a second. “Maybe the rehab room, but I wouldn’t recommend jumps in there. I’m pretty sure they have solid concrete under the hardwood under the foam padding. Why?” The look he gives Yuri over the hardcover book is confused. Yuri ignores it and pushes on.

“Is there an open space?”

“Yes, I guess. The yoga area is pretty open. All the machines and stuff are on one side of the room.”

“And a mirror?”

“Just one wall, opposite the door.” That’s all Yuri needs to hear.

“If you’re free to move around the hospital by this weekend, I’ll come after practice to work on presentation. We can go there.” It could work, Yuri tells himself. They’ll make it work. Sure, he won’t be paid for the hours he practices in the hospital, but the more practice he gets the better he will be when he joins the rest of the _ troupe_.

Anton just stares in bewildered disbelief. “You really want my help that badly, huh?” _ Yes_, he _ does_, Yuri thought he said that already. “I’ll check with my doctor to see if I can’t get an hour or so reserved for the two of us then.”

_ Oh thank fuck. _“Thanks, man.”

He gets a _ hmm _ in response, and Yuri takes that as his cue to leave. He’s barely out the door before his phone is in his hand and he’s furiously texting Ashley about pay for this production. He doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow when he sees Lilia in the morning. She responds to him in a matter of seconds with a reply that nearly makes Yuri’s jaw drop. If he plans this right, he just might make his quota before the 18th. Then he remembers something else and shoots out another text to Ashley. As soon as she responds with what he needs he makes a group chat and forwards the information to it.

* * *

There’s a bunch of electronic bulletin boards scattered across campus, and one just happens to be in the hallway across from Yuri’s studio locker rooms. Normally, he doesn’t care about what’s on the screen, but Mila told him to keep an eye on them today.

She isn’t one of the gossip queens for nothing.

Yuri grins viciously as the campus news flashes a set of five student profile pictures under a banner of _ ‘Suspended’_. The fine print reads something about assault and a restraining order while the voice over rambles on about an attack on a guest artist of the beloved and infamous Lilia Baranovskaya, currently of the Juilliard ballet division. He opens up his Facebook and types in a name, finding the profile that matches the one on the screen. The entire timeline is a slew of reposts of _ breaking news _ and _ this just in _ from a half dozen different accounts. The same on the next two profiles he checks. Amanet hasn’t been on in four days. His dummy accounts, however, have been _very _active recently.

Yuri fucking _ loves _ his friends sometimes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where are my late 90's/early 2000's kids at?! I am having the time of my life with my old music. I'm am never leaving this era. Also, props and a virtual cookie if you figure out what anime I based Lilia's summer performance off of. If you do, go watch it because it's one of my favorites.
> 
> Revenge is a dish best served cold, yes? I've seen people pull off craziness like what Yuri orchestrated, getting people in trouble though school admin and over social media. It's equal parts terrifying, satisfying, and hilarious. 
> 
> We are still a long way off from the final resolution, so go on and enjoy the scheme that Yuri hatched! Comments and Kudos make my day!


	14. Home, Phillip Phillips/Home, Todrick Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, Beka!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Settle down, it'll all be clear_   
_Don't pay no mind to the deamons, they fill you with fear_   
_The trouble it might drag you down_   
_If you get lost, you can always be found_   


July is barely half over when Yuri throws open the door, dropping his full suitcase besides it and dragging an empty one towards Otabek’s bed. “Call your people Beka. And the idiots you call friends,” Yuri adds as an afterthought after barging into Otabek’s loft and rifling through the older man’s closet. His back is turned to said older man, yet he can hear the unasked question floating over his friend’s head. Yuri’s hands grab a number of hangars and tosses them onto the bed, when he sees Otabek watching him with a puzzled expression. Yuri huffs and jabs a finger into Otabek’s chest as he walks past. 

“Did you not hear me? Call your jobs and Rita or Amanet and clear up your week. _ Now_.” And with that Yuri spins on his heel in search of the suitcase he lugged over, dropping it in front of the bed. He can hear Otabek following him around and the distinct sound of him unlocking his phone. “And start packing. You have to bring what I just took out. I’ll be checking.”

“What, exactly, am I telling them? I can’t just not show up for a week in favor of hiding out in my loft. And why, pray tell, am I packing a suitcase?” 

“Duh. We’re going to visit your family. Tickets are on the table and both of our emails. Go find your passport and start packing. I’ll take care of your fridge.” And with that Yuri’s already tossing out leftover grapes that are starting to grow suspicious white fuzz on them and emptying a tupperware full of leftover lasagna that is expiring in two days. He hears that Otabek has stopped moving.

“What?”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “We. Are going. To visit. Your. Family. Go. And. Pack.” Honestly, for how smart Otabek is, he’s being awfully slow on the uptake today. Yuri makes a mental note to check for a concussion. Is it safe for someone to fly when they have a concussion? Beka _ better not _ have a concussion, he went through a _ lot _of trouble to plan this for a concussion to fuck it up now.

Otabek just continues staring at him with wide eyes. “How? Yuri, I can’t just up and leave in twenty-four hours, I have to work-”

Yuri cocks a hip and levels a smug smile at his friend. “I warned both clubs and the radio company you work at exactly nineteen days ago that you’d be cashing in your vacation days soon. They confirmed with me three days ago, you just need to tell them yourselves and send them the return flight date. The clubs are giving you vacation pay. Couldn’t get the station though, you just started. Not enough saved vacation hours, apparently.” He roots through cabinets as he continues to ramble. “The flight is tomorrow afternoon, not tonight idiot. Rita will hold your share for the week or wire it over, your choice. And again, I already bought the tickets. We have to ship the bike today though,” he muses thoughtfully. Hmm, he can ask Katsudon to drive them to the airport…

“Yuri, how did…”

“I asked. Simple as that.” Well, not _ really_, he may or may not have called in a few favors with Viktor and promised his liver and firstborn to the clubs in order for the vacation pay, but what Beka doesn’t know won’t kill him.

“But how did you pay for the tickets?” 

“From the show’s practice hours. I’ve been putting in extra time.” Mostly, anyway. All the free time that he thought he would have to skulk around his flat up and vanished when he joined the production, and it’s like eleven near-consecutive hours a day with _ Lilia_, but he kind of likes how many digits he has in his account now.

“And the bike?”

“Oh come on, you love that thing too much to leave it alone for seven days. The shipping company works with luxury cars, it’ll be fine.” Another favor from Viktor, oops. For once, Yuri is grateful that the platinum blonde is overly extravagant and can afford sporadic jumps across the world for unknown amounts of time. The shipping company bent over backwards to help him once he dropped Viktor’s name.

“Yura, I can’t-”

And it’s about time that Yuri ends this pleasant conversation. They have work to do. “_Yes_, you can, Beka. Stop worrying for once and go pack. The shipping company will be here in two hours.” And with that he whips out his phone and calls the company. “Now, go find your passport, license, and the registration for the bike. And then go pack. I’ll deal with your fridge and clean the loft.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand before focusing on his call. 

Yuri chews on his bottom lip as he considers what he’s doing. 

He doesn’t know why or how, but the past two months of seeing Otabek slowly lose his sanity over his mother’s wavering health fostered an obscene amount of sympathy for his best friend. The older man had been slowly withdrawing into himself with every passing day, so Yuri starting searching for a way to cheer him up again. He took Otabek to clubs to dance, he brought him to his rehearsals and shows over the summer break, he went to as many gigs as the other man had, he stayed over as much as he could to keep his friend company whenever they had time. And for a short while it would work, before all of Yuri’s hard work would be undone with an update from Almaty. 

So Yuri had the brilliant idea to get Otabek to physically see his family.

Surprisingly, Yuuri Katsuki was incredibly forthcoming and helpful with all of the planning. The Japanese man had caught Yuri looking at flights to Almaty and making his ever-growing to-do list, and had candidly offered to arrange some break time with Lilia and Yakov. That’s when Yuri realized that he would have to get permission for Otabek to go on vacation, otherwise he would lose his jobs. Which would do more harm than good. _ Duh_.

Katsuki had noticed his panic and took over talking to the managers of both clubs and the radio station, explaining that Otabek had a family emergency internationally and would like to request time off. Yuri had grown a healthy respect for his name-double when he easily manipulated both managers into giving Otabek as much time as he needed, promising that his job would still be there when he came back and even throwing in vacation pay with a well-placed slip of ‘his mother is in the hospital’. The radio station couldn’t bend the rules for pay for a newbie, but was very eager to give Otabek a week or two off since they called ahead of time. The man was a brilliant actor. And let it be known that Yuri will walk willingly into his own grave before admitting that out loud.

And Katsuki kept being so _ helpful _ that Yuri didn’t know what to with it. He called Viktor and got the details for the shipping company, easily shouldering the extra fee on himself. He helped Yuri pick a flight and set a budget for the week. He made Yuri talk to his coaches himself, but the blonde suspected that the Japanese man also talked to them on the low. 

Fuck, Yuri owed Yuuri big time. _ Ugh, _fine.

Otabek ambles back into the kitchen with the requested documentation, which Yuri grabs and points back towards the still-empty suitcase as he chatters away to the shipping company. He watches Otabek slowly start packing and makes a note to actually check the suitcase later. His friend is so out of it he might just forget something. 

“Yes, just a Yamaha FJR1300 Sports Tourer. Yes. Fine. Uh… 25 Groove Street in Greenwich, New York. Yes. Goodbye.” Yuri hangs up and goes back to the fridge. “The company will be here in an hour, make sure you pack some toiletries you idiot, and _ keep your shoes wrapped in plastic bags_!” he yells while throwing some balled-up plastic bags at Otabek, who was about to place a pair of Converse on top of a cream satin button down. Yeah, he’ll have to check up on packing later.

After finishing the fridge and cleaning down the kitchen, Yuri and Otabek jog down the stairs to oversee the shippers packing up the bike. Otabek is visibly a millisecond away from micromanaging the movers to the point of puppeteering, while Yuri rolls his eyes and talks to the supervisor about documentation and the payments. Viktor, the idiot, had already paid them in full and promised another twenty percent tip if they got the bike to and from Kazakhstan with no damage. So that, at the least, is one thing they won’t have to worry about. Then Yuri pulls out his phone and calls Yuuri, securing them a ride to the airport after lunch tomorrow, his treat. The younger male rolled his eyes and grumbled a soft ‘thanks’ before hanging up and dragging Otabek back upstairs to finish getting them ready. 

Otabek keeps the zoned-out look on his face as he calls his managers to confirm his vacation. Yuri bustles around, dusting and vacuuming and fixing up the loft - not that he had much to do, since Otabek is a naturally tidy person. Then he goes through Otabek’s suitcase again and packs everything away neatly. Years of being a clothes pack rat come in handy for times like this. By the time he's done re-folding everything, there’s still a third of the suitcase left empty for the small odds and ends that they’ll undoubtedly have to shove in later.

Otabek is looking at his workbench, eyeing all of his music tech with resignment.

Yuri lets out yet another long-suffering sigh. “The carry-on is for your tech. The small soundboard, your laptop, and the beat board should comfortably fit with all of their wires.” He nudges said carry-on towards Otabek. 

“Yura, am I really going to see my family tomorrow?” Otabek sounds all kinds of lost, and that just won’t do. Yuri isn’t used to Beka not sound ardently sure of himself, so he’s easily and willingly slipped into the role of bringing his friend back into equilibrium. Sitting back, Yuri rolls his shoulders and absentmindedly brushes his fringe out of his eyes.

“Well, the day after tomorrow, but yeah.” 

“Why?”

Yeah, his best friend is dumb. Or really hit his head hard. 

“Because not seeing them is slowly killing you, Beka. Because you’re working too damn hard and it’s about time you see how much you’ve done. Because you aren’t a goddamn superhero, and you need breaks.” _ Because I can’t sit by and watch you tear yourself apart. _

Otabek doesn’t move for a long while. Its slow, but Yuri can see the slightest sliver of hope working its way back into Otabek’s face. 

“Okay.”

* * *

Otabek steps out of the airport to a view that he hasn’t seen in years. Snow-dusted mountains stand guard in the distance and people are speaking his mother tongue fluently and it’s odd to hear it again in copious murmuring after so long. There are only a few buildings that rise over five or six stories high, leaving the sky mostly clear and cotton candy blue. The smell of the city that he has grown accustomed to - so much so that he easily ignores it - is notably gone, almost making the air smell thinner.

Amina is leaning against her white BMW and staring at him and Yuri with a raised eyebrow. 

She is so much bigger than he remembers her being. No longer a girl, but not yet a full woman, pushing at the edges of her teenage years. Her thick black hair is wrested into a braided bun and she’s only in grey jeans and a tank top with a flannel around her waist. Her eyes are a honey gold and even warmer than the summer air around them.

The last time Otabek saw her in person, he was fifteen and she was twelve and Inzhu was just nine. She still bugged him to braid her hair before bed and pretended not to cry when he cleaned her bruised knuckles and scraped knees. She was still shorter than him by a mile and had a gap between her front teeth because one came out far earlier than the other. She looked up to him and stunned him with her complex understanding of what he thought were simple topics.

He wonders how much of what he remembers is left in her.

Amina is not particularly impressed with his impersonation of a statue. She _ is _impressed with the mane of spun gold and cutting Russian that steps out from behind him.

“Is that your sister Beka?” Yuri has always been blunt. Amina is just amused as she holds out a hand. Her voice is a tone or two deeper than he remembers. Or maybe it’s just been too long since he heard it through the air instead of through a phone.

“Yes, I am. Amina, nice to meet you Yuri.” Otabek just watches as they shake hands and continue to prattle on in Russian. If Yuri is surprised at Amina’s knowing Russian, he doesn’t show it. Or maybe he expected it because Otabek also knows Russian as his second language. Yuri shoots him a mildly annoyed glance over his shoulder and grabs Otabek’s bag and moves behind the van to pack them away, leaving him to greet his sister alone.

“Hello, Amina.” 

“Oh my god, Yuri warned me that you were out of it, but this is just pathetic.” And he finds himself crushing her to his chest almost as tightly as she is to hers. Looks like she never stopped getting into fights. She’s all muscle now, and he’ll bet money that she could drag him around without trying if the mood struck her.

“Come on. Mom is about to climb the walls.” Her voice is muffled into his shoulder. He doesn’t comment on the hitch in her voice because he might let out one of his own. The trunk of the van closes with a loud slam. 

He drives because Yuri has kidnapped his sister’s attention again. She’s playing tour guide to an enraptured Yuri, who asks enough questions to force Amina to resort to giving Sparknotes as answers in preparation for the next one. It’s been so long since he’s driven down these roads in his parents’ car, on his motorcycle. Its surreal in a way; when he lived here, as a child, the houses and streets and trees were benign, a footnote tagged on at the end of the day. Now he’s hyper aware of every building that passes with its tint of familiarity. The wild apple tree that was on the corner of the small side street that hides his childhood home has been cut down, the stump still pressing its roots meters deep into the soil beneath them. 

The chatter behind him fades into background noise as Otabek parks the car and drags his and Yuri’s suitcases out of the trunk. He makes it about ten steps towards the front door of his house when he’s tackled from behind by flailing limbs and wild black hair. Inzhu doesn’t let him fall though; that would mean breaking her bear hug.

“Beka, Beka, Beka, you _ finally _ made it, oh my god its been forever _ and a day_, don’t stay away so long next time, mother and father have been insufferable and ‘Mina is always too busy being _ boring_, did you know that Miss Niyazov cut down the apple tree cuz ‘Mina fell out of it a few years ago trying to get my launch glider out of it-”

Yuri ambles up with a slightly confounded smile on his face. Inzhu is still clinging to him and talking in rapid-fire Kazakh-Russian-English, and Otabek can guess how odd it must sound to the blonde who can only understand a little more than half of what his youngest sister is saying. 

“Inzhu, it’s good to see you too,” he says with a laugh, barely managing to swivel around in her arms to hug her properly. Her head comes up to his chin, and stray hairs from her braid tickle his nose. “Sorry, I won’t wait so long to visit next time.” He means it too. “Mother and father mean well, and Amina is busy because she’s going to college soon.” She should be, anyway. He doesn’t want to think of the very real option of her giving up her dream like he did. “I saw the tree as I was coming down the street. Why was your launch glider in the tree? You know you shouldn’t be aiming that anywhere outside of a park.” He’s probably wasting his breath, Inzhu will do whatever she wants anyway because their father will let her. “Come meet my friend Yuri, he’s the reason why I’m here.” He’s so used to answering Inzhu’s string of statements in one go, and it feels a little like warm tea in the dead of winter.

Yuri cocks his head at the sound of his name, and then suddenly he has an armful of fifteen-year-old rapid-fire-Russian Inzhu. Otabek can hear the string of ‘thank you’s that stain Yuri’s face red. He stammers out a response, but Inzhu is already dragging him inside. Green eyes flash over to Otabek, who just watches as he picks their bags up again with a fond smile on his face.

By the time he has set both bags and the carry on inside his childhood bedroom, Inzhu has dragged Yuri all over the house and back and is now making him help her and Amina cook dinner. Otabek is set on a back foot when he realizes that his sisters have probably been cooking for themselves and the rest of the family for years. And probably taking care of the rest of the house by themselves. Their mother and her aide may be at home all the time, but for all intents and purposes, Amina and Inzhu have been taking care of themselves.

Pride in them is tainted by bitter disappointment in himself.

Yuri, though, has slipped seamlessly into their routine, the three of them flowing around each other like they’ve done this dance for years between the wooden table and marble counters and chrome appliances. They laugh and joke and tell stories while beating eggs and stirring vegetables and frying meats. Amina catches a glimpse of him past the table and shoves an onion in his hand with an order to ‘dice it and then set some rice to cook and then help her roll out the dough’.

Yuri glances over when Otabek sidles up beside him and then returns to chopping the arugula for the salad as he reaches for a knife off of the chopping block. The four of them work side by side as they prepare more than twice the amount of food any of them are used to cooking at once. It’s a jolt shy of being overwhelming, so many things going on at once and so many bodies crushed into the small kitchen, but Otabek finds that he would have it no other way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _So give love to the ones that make your heart beat_   
_No power to the ones without smart things_   
_Ma, keep the light on, I'm coming off the dark streets_   
_I'll make sure to wipe my feet, 'cause I'm coming home_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> [Todrick flipping Hall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eM_O7eNSzbc), ya'll. One of the best LGBTQ+ reps of this generation. Go watch [Straight Outta Oz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4mUSwHhJ6zA) when you get a chance, and any other visual albums of his that strike your fancy. I love this man.
> 
> Pilari low-key called it last chapter, lol. Our little blondie went and put most of his earnings from Lilia's summer program to a vacation to Almaty. Because he's Yuri and he will do whatever the fuck he wants, thank you very much.


	15. Message in the Wind, Nai Br. XX & Celenia Ann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come meet Beka's mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _There's a place beyond the farthest cloud_   
_There's a message in the wind_   
_And when you dream that big, you're not afraid to live_   
_There's a place where all the stories begin_   


The girls and Yuri have banned him from the kitchen while the food finishes cooking and they set the table, so Otabek takes the time to go see his mother. There’s nothing much else to do with his father not home yet. Part of him longs to go to her right now. Part of him is scared of what he will find.

He listens from the hallway just beyond the kitchen as Amina and Inzhu quiz Yuri on everything. From how they met to what Yuri does to how the hell he managed to pull off getting the two of them halfway across the world in no time. Yuri seems to really like Amina and more than tolerate Inzhu, and they seem to like him right back. 

Otabek realizes he’s stalling. Gathering his courage, he knocks lightly on the door to the master bedroom of his childhood home. The unfamiliar face of his mother’s aid greets him as she opens the door. Of course, he’s known that his mother had a twenty-four-seven aid, but he’s never actually seen her. Likewise, he must have been nothing more than a story to her for how present he’s been. They stare at each other for a long moment, not quite knowing what to make of the other until a soft voice from inside the room calls out.

“Who is that at the door, Medina?”

He hasn’t heard his mother’s voice in years. The sound of it ignites him from the inside. “_Aнa, _it’s me.” He pushes through the doorway, ignoring the protests of the aid as he moves to the bedside. 

His mother is sitting up in the bed, a ball of yarn and a half-finished blanket sprawling across her lap. It’s summer, but she still wears a long-sleeved shirt with a knitted shawl over her shoulders and has the sheets covering her legs. Her hair is still tightly wrapped up in a soft blue headscarf to add an extra layer of warmth. The wires and tubes that are hooked up to a vitals monitor are held high and out of the way by a tall stand as her needles twist the yarn round and round. She’s finishing the last stitches of her row when he sits next to her. He can tell the exact moment she recognizes him - the soft _ click-click _ of the needles stops dead and the blanket drops from her fingers. Which is good; Otabek would hate to be the reason she starts the row over again because he messed her up with his hug. 

“Otabek? _ балам _ is that you?” His _ Aнa _ shakes as she grabs at him, pulling him back to take another look at his face. He’s missed her so much, he can’t speak for the tears caught in his throat, so he settles for nodding. That’s all it takes to convince her, and she’s pulling him back into her arms fiercely and Otabek just lets the tears spill. There aren’t enough words in all the languages he knows to describe how much his heart aches at seeing his mother again, at hearing her voice thank God for his return. “Oh I’ve missed you, my Otabek.”

Otabek clings to his mother like he’s five again and sends up his thanks too, that he got to see her again. Even if it’s been years since he had last seen her in person. Even if she’s still sick and much thinner than he ever remembers her being. She’s still _ here_, and he can still see her at all, and right now that’s all that matters. Between his parents, he always favored his mother just a bit more than his father. Always calm and at peace, she soothed his stubborn nature that he had inherited from his father. If she wanted to move a mountain into the sea, Otabek has no doubt that _Aнa _ will find a way and do it with the most serene face. When he was younger, he was almost convinced that she could do magic with how easily she found ways around problems he thought insurmountable. Now, seeing her connected to a heart monitor, he realizes just how human she is. He regrets staying away for so long. “I’ve missed you too, _ Aнa_,” he says into her shoulder once he finds his voice. 

“How is it that you are here, _ балам_? Why are you not back in New York?” His mother starts fussing over his hair, trying to smooth it back out of his face. He lets her, just finding contentment in being around her again while he tries to find the short answer to that. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. He can hear Yuri calling for him in his bedroom across the hall. Catching his mother’s hand and minding the IV there, he turns to the open bedroom door and calls out in Russian.

“Over here, Yura. I want you to meet someone.”

Yuri appears not a minute later like sunshine in human form bursting over the horizon. He takes in the room in one sweep before moving to stand besides where Otabek still sits on the edge of the bed. “Yuri, this is my mother, Kausaur Altin. _ Aнa_, this is my best friend, Yuri Plisetsky. He’s the reason I’m here.” 

Yuri shifts just a bit, just enough that Otabek can notice his nervousness, just enough that he can see the difference when the blonde squares his shoulders and greets his mother gracefully. “Hello, Ma’am. It’s nice to meet you, Otabek has told me a lot about you.”

_ Aнa _ sits a little straighter and uses Yuri’s outstretched hand to pull the younger boy in. Yuri stumbles over Otabek’s legs and just barely rights himself in time to brace himself for her hug. Now Yuri looks really out of his element, glancing over to where Otabek sits as he flushes red at something his mother whispers. Hesitantly, he hugs _ Aнa _ back, drawing back as soon as she loosens her grip. Yuri is still a brilliant shade of red when he shoves his fists in his pockets and mumbles something about dinner being ready and that his father has come home.

The aid in the corner interrupts for the first time. “I will go fetch your dinner, _ апай_.” She takes two steps towards the door before _ Aнa _ stops her.

“Nonsense, Medina. I will join them for dinner tonight. Here, I’ll be out in a few minutes. You boys go on. Otabek, take Yuri and greet your father.” _ Aнa _ sets them both with her determined stare, and Otabek takes comfort in how familiar it still is. He places a kiss on her cheek as he guides Yuri out and back to the dining room. He can still hear _ Aнa _ordering around her aid as she prepares for dinner. 

Yuri glances back over his shoulder as they start down the stairs. “I guess she likes me?” he murmurs, to which Otabek just laughs. 

“Yes, _ Aнa _ likes you. Which means by extension so will _ Əĸe._”

Yuri blanches. “Fu- I mean,” he glances over his shoulder again, “Jeeze, your dad scares me.” He shudders as Inzhu bolts around the stars and drags him away. Otabek chuckles and follows them. He can’t blame Yuri, he has a healthy dose of respect tempered by a smidge of fear of his own father as well. Mostly because he looks like he could run a mob or something. He also knows that he got his temper from him, so there’s also that. 

He finds Inzhu and Yuri in the living room, by the mantle with all of the pictures from when they were kids. Inzhu has the photo of him and his bicycle in the pond at the park and is animatedly overexadgerating his epic fall. He leaves them to pop into the kitchen, where Amina is setting the last place. _ Əĸe _ is already seated, flipping through a newspaper. It’s like nothing has changed over the past half decade. It’s natural to fall back into the old patterns.

“Good evening, _ Əĸe._ _Aнa _ and her aid will be joining us tonight,” he tells Amina, who looks like all of her wishes came true and then scowls at the placements in the span of three seconds. 

“Damnit, now I have to do them again,” she mumbles as she shoves a plate over.

“Language, Amina. Good evening, Otabek. I didn’t realize you were coming back.” Yep, he’s more than a bit upset that Otabek ignored him and came home. He can’t bring himself to care that much though, when it means that he can actually see that in person rather than through a phone call. And he knows that his father agrees - he won’t be upset for long. So he pays it no mind and helps Amina set up two more places. 

“Yuri managed to arrange a small vacation for me to come and visit. I’ll be back in a week.”

_ Əĸe _ shoots him a surprised stare over the top of his newspaper. “Did he.” 

“I did.”

_ Speak of the sun and it shines, _Otabek thinks with a smile on his face. Yuri’s popped into the kitchen and he’s schooled his face into a calm mask as he takes the cutlery from Amina and starts setting it up. He doesn’t go any further with the line of conversation, and his father returns to his newspaper, but Otabek can just catch the tail end of the look of approval before it’s hidden behind black and white. He turns his smile on his friend, who manages one back. His whole family loves Yuri, and Otabek falls just a little more in love with him.

* * *

Yuri is scrolling through his mental list of items he and Otabek brought with them as he packs up their suitcases. His best friend is dealing with the shipping company sending his bike back outside while he finishes packing. He needs to somehow manage to fit four more shirts, two sweaters, a new set of sneakers, and a new scarf into their luggage along with everything the brought. Looking around though, he considers just buying another carry-on and calling it a day. Or maybe _ Aпай _ Kausaur will have an extra bag that hey can use. 

He likes Beka’s mom, a lot. She’s even more chill than her son, and has _ way _ more hobbies. The sweaters he’s trying to squeeze into his suitcase were handmade by her and his is the single softest thing he owns to date. As soon as it gets cold in New York he’s wearing it _ everywhere_. His dad isn’t that bad either, even though he still gets nervous as hell around him. After their first dinner, when literally every female at the table ganged up against _ Ағай _ Askar in his defence, he gave in. To be honest, he prefers the respectful term when addressing Otabek’s father more than his mother. She’s just so chill!

Yuri shakes his head and heaves himself off of the floor of Otabek’s bedroom. He needs an extra bag. 

_ Aпай _ Kausaur is set up on the back porch today, something that has her aid Medina hovering like a hummingbird. A new blanket and ball of yarn is in her lap, and she _ humm _ s as she creates a zigzag pattern in blue and gold. “_Aпай _ Kausaur?”

She smiles up at him and sets down her work drawing him in and planting a kiss on his head. She apparently likes doing that with all of her kids, even Beka who stands a full head and a half taller than her. “What did you need, _ шырағым_?” 

_ ‘Damn, another one I need Beka to translate’. _ He mentally memorizes it and files it away for later. “Beka and I will need another bag to bring all of our stuff back with us.”

_ Aпай _ Kausaur thinks for a moment before sending her aid off to go look for one of her handmade bags. As soon as Medina is past the threshold _ Aпай _ Kausaur pulls on his arm until he drops into the chair next to her. 

“I can’t thank you enough for bringing Otabek to visit. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him in person, and he’s grown so much.” She picks her needles back up again and deftly starts twisting the yarn again. Yuri will never get used to how often she thanks him. 

He looks out past the edge of the porch. The Altin house is on the edge of a cliff of sorts that brackets one of the many parks in the neighborhood. Somewhere down there Otabek once rode his bike into a pond, and Amina drove her sled into a thistle bush. “He’s been missing all of you ever since I’ve known him. I just did what I thought would help.”

“He and his father are so much alike. They’re both too hard working at times. They forget that good company can do more for the soul than anything else.” Yuri can hear the smile in her voice. She’s awfully fond of those two stubborn males, and she doesn’t bother to hide it. “You’ve been keeping him company over in New York, yes?”

“Yeah,” Yuri murmurs. “Beka’s been working nonstop recently though.”

“Silly boy,” _ Aпай _ Kausaur scoffs. “You keep him from burning out, yes Yuri? I’d do it myself, but,” she nods to her IV and oxygen pump set up behind her. “I’m not as well as I once was.”

Well shit, that put a damper on things. “I’m trying, but I don’t know what else I can do.” Not much more than this, that’s for sure. The summer program won’t go on forever, and he’s also lost a week as well as starting late. Once the new school term starts again, he’ll be back to the stereotypical broke college student status. This was the best thing he could do, and it’s helped Beka so much, but they both have to go back to their lives in New York soon. 

A knitting needle taps him on the head, and he looks over to _ Aпай _ Kausaur. “I thought you were the smarter one _ шырағым._ You’ll find your answer, but only if you keep looking for it.”

Yuri blinks. That … actually makes a lot of sense. And if he thinks about it, that’s how he and Beka got here in the first place. He was desperately looking for some way to help, and as soon as one appeared he latched on. It may have been a temporary solution, but now Yuri’s confident that somehow or another everything will shake itself back out in the end. 

Medina finally comes back with a tight-knit rucksack in forest green and black. She hands it to _ Aпай _ Kausaur, who looks it over with a critical eye before handing it off to Yuri. “Here, _ шырағым. _This should fit everything, yes?”

And then some. He could fit a small child or two in here if he needed. Any bigger and the airport won't count it as a carry-on. “Yeah, this will work perfectly. Thanks, _ Aпай _ Kausaur.” He gets up and places a kiss on her cheek. She, in turn, pulls his head down and plants another kiss on his head. 

“You’re very welcome dear. I wish I could see you and Otabek off. Come again soon, yes?”

Yuri doesn’t have the heart to tell her no, so he agrees easily with another tight hug and a promise to send Otabek out to say goodbye as well. He’ll make sure they come back every year. He’ll move mountains if he has to. He loves that woman like he loves his own damn mother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> балам: My son, my child in Kazakh  
апай: a Kazakh title of respect from a younger person to an older woman  
Ағай: a Kazakh title of respect from a younger person to an older man  
шырағым: my light in Kazakh
> 
> * * *
> 
> GUESS WHERE THIS ONE IS FROM GUYS! 
> 
> Pilari, I couldn't resist. I went to sleep fully convinced that this wouldn't exist for another month or so, but I woke up two days ago with the entire thing played out in my head. Who loves Mama Altin?


	16. My Heart Will Go On, 2Cellos/ Lay It All On Me, Nai Br. XX & Celenia Ann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri takes Otabek somewhere sacred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _You're here, there's nothing I fear_   
_And I know that my heart will go on_   
_We'll stay forever this way_   
_you are safe in my heart and_   
_My heart will go on and on_   


Otabek gets a text from Yuri on August nineteenth at nine-twelve in the morning telling him to be outside the Juilliard dance studios by ten. No rhyme or reason why, no justifications or excuses follow the order. It’s the first and last text he gets all morning. Otabek chooses not to question Yuri about it and grabs his keys. But he does wonder what the occasion is. Yuri’s performance with Lilia’s summer troupe is in like two weeks and they’re supposed to be doing dress rehearsals soon. Yuri started late, and then lost a week due to their little vacation, so he’s been putting in more hours in the studio to make up for it. 

Not that Otabek can really say anything, he just got off of work for the early-morning radio station job he picked up like an hour ago. Technically, he’s supposed to meet up with JJ and the others at three today. And he normally wouldn’t miss the extra pay if it weren’t for the little nagging sensation at the back of his mind saying that this is important. He texts Amanet to come pick up his DJ equipment and drive it over to their spot for the day. If he makes it, he makes it. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. Aman can handle being DJ for a few hours.

When he gets to the school, Yuri climbs onto the back of Otabek’s motorcycle with barely a ‘hi’. He’s not in his dance uniform, nor in casual sweats. He’s in dark jeans and black converse high tops, a grey shirt peeking out past a short-sleeve hoodie. Not a single piece of cat print in sight. But he doesn’t offer up any explanation or a course of action readily, so Otabek just kicks off of the curb and drives when Yuri is secure behind him. They circle Manhattan aimlessly for the better part of an hour before Yuri tugs on Otabek’s shirt and shoves his phone onto the dashboard. Google Maps is open, and apparently he is supposed to turn right in three-quarters of a mile. So he does.

The map takes them to a cemetery in Rego Park, Queens, and Yuri is silent as he walks in. Otabek parks his bike and follows behind the younger boy like a shadow. He gets no reason for why they are here, but he has not been told to leave yet, so he will stay. If Yuri wanted him to leave, he would say so. 

Yuri wanders through the rows and columns of tombstones slowly, looking around for something. He checks their position every time they pass a map until they reach a small collection of buildings at the heart of the cemetery. A gift store and office sitting right in front of a small cathedral with a half dozen stained glass windows. Both are empty right now, and it makes the whole place feel just a bit more devoid of life. They don’t stop at either.

There’s a small garden just past the center cathedral, and at the head of it is a memorial statue. A memorial statue not of an angel, but of a woman in a dance pose that Otabek has seen Yuri do almost a hundred times. A _ croise derrierre_, if he remembers correctly, with her arms crossed lightly in front of her, palms up, as if hugging someone who isn’t there. Instead of a stone replica of a _ ballerina’s _performance attire, she wears a long, sweeping gown that brushes her calves with loose bell sleeves. A circlet of roses adorns her free wispy hair. She smiles serenely down at them standing below.

He has seen her eyes before.

Yuri has stopped right in front of the statue, and just stares up at it. He doesn’t move for a solid ten minutes. It’s as if he became a part of the scenery as much as the statue he’s looking at, for how well his lithe figure matches the statue’s. Otabek keeps his distance, lets Yuri have this moment to himself if he wants, but is still close if his friend needs him.

“Come say hello, Beka,” he finally whispers, eyes still on the face of the statue. Otabek comes as if summoned and stands besides Yuri. A flash of light draws his attention to a plaque on the base, bronze and fading a bit from the weather.

“They named it _ Ethereal _ when they donated it. The American Ballet Theater. After they heard what had happened. Lilia told me where to find it this morning. She comes once a month.” Yuri’s voice barely carries the short distance between them. “I remember Grandpa getting an invitation to the installation ceremony when I was around ten. We didn’t go, though. We were busy at home.”

Otabek looks closer at the plaque. 

_In loving memory of Svetlana Ivanov-Plisetsky, who brought magic with every step. _

Oh. That’s where he’s seen those eyes before.

Yuri has them.

“With the funeral?” Otabek makes a guess. Yuri nods. 

“They were the last group to have her as a guest. She stopped dancing a couple of months after she came back home because she had me.” He brushes a bit of dirt off of her supporting foot. “ABT had it commissioned after she resigned and was named _ prima ballerina assoluta_, had it set up a week or so after the funeral. We were too busy to book a flight over.” Yuri keeps his eyes on the stone _ pointe _ shoe he’s dusting off, a curtain of hair half-hiding him from Otabek.

Otabek looks up at the serene face above them. From the arch of her back to the curve of her arms, he can see Yuri in her. He turns his foot out the same way, holds his fingers with the same lightness and strength. His arms make the same curves and he often tilts his head as she does. His skill must have come from her, Otabek thinks, because Yuri is becoming ethereal every time he laces up his shoes. He is his mother’s son, no doubt.

Yuri folds in on himself, sinking to the ground cross-legged, not caring at all about getting his clothes dirty. He lightly traces the letters of his mother’s name as Otabek joins him on the floor. “_Maмa_, sorry I’m not at home this time. I’m in New York. With Lilia. She’s teaching at Juilliard now. She’s still as scary as ever though. She and Yakov run their ballet division. They split a while ago, though.” Yuri pauses and takes a breath. “I’m rooming with a Masters student in choreo, Yuuri Katsuki. He knows Viktor. They’re annoying. He’s still a _ principal_, but he switched to ABT a few years ago, apparently. Katsuki is really good too, you’d have liked working with him.”

Yuri finally glances at Otabek, and his eyelashes are dark with unshed tears. “This is Otabek, _ Maмa_. My best friend. He’s a DJ, and has his own band. They’re crazy. I’m staying out of trouble, though, promise. You’d like him. He’s the best.”

Otabek grasps Yuri’s free hand, and feels the younger boy tremble as he clings back. “I’m training with Lilia now. She has this summer show where a bunch of scouters from a lot of different companies show up. And I’m going to be in it.” He breathes. “I miss you, _ Maмa_.”

Otabek worries that his hand might actually break with how much force Yuri is putting on it. He tugs Yuri around so that the Russian is tucked into his side when the first tear falls. When Yuri can’t find words any more, he picks up where the blonde left off.

“Hello, Svetlana. I’m Otabek Altin. I’m twenty-one years old, and my family is from Kazakhstan. I moved to the US for high school. I saw Yuri for the first time while I was playing with my band down in the Times Square and forty-second street train station. I met him formally a little later. Yuri has been working hard with Mrs. Baranovskaya since I’ve known him. He’s really talented, one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. I’m proud of him, and I know you are too. He speaks so highly of you. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

Otabek isn’t that religious, and truth be told he feels a bit silly, but this means a lot to Yuri. And he finds himself wanting to believe that this statue of Yuri’s mother is smiling down on them, just for them. For Yuri’s sake.

* * *

It’s going on five in the afternoon when they leave. They’ve spent the day telling Svetlana as many stories as they can remember, taking all the time they need. Otabek has already texted Rita and made his excuses for the day, and thankfully she understands. This is something that overrules work today.

Neither of them have eaten at all today, so Otabek drives them back to his loft and starts to pull out ingredients for a meal. Yuri has been quiet all this time, probably emotionally exhausted from earlier, and the Kazakh man is content to let his friend rest until the food is ready. But he’s just a bit surprised when Yuri pulls out the rice bag from under the counter and puts a few cups into the cooker after cleaning it. 

“You don’t have to help, Yura,” Otabek says as he turns back to the vegetables he’s cutting up. Yuri just ignores him and moves to dragging his hair into a ponytail before pulling out seasonings for the chicken. This is something Yuri does when he’s out of sorts - he looks for the first distraction he can find and focuses on it until he feels better. So Otabek lets him have the distraction. And besides, after a week with Amina and Inzhu, Yuri can cook as well as any Altin kid. He has the chicken seasoned in minutes and is mixing a broth by the time Otabek finishes with the vegetables. He only steps aside to let Otabek transfer them to the pot.

“Thank you for earlier.” He doesn’t look at Otabek, choosing instead to watch the pot simmer, but the older man knows Yuri means it. His mother is a sacred topic on good days. To be able to share part of something so personal is world-altering for Otabek, and he hopes that he didn’t do anything wrong. 

“Thank you for bringing me.”

They work in silence for a while longer, until the chicken is in the oven and the vegetables are stewing slowly in the broth. Yuri slumps back into Otabek’s personal space and lays his head on his shoulder. Said man hesitates for a minute before his hand comes up and cards through fine blonde hair. 

“_Maмa _didn’t get treated for a lot of the stuff my father did. She didn’t want anyone finding out and getting in trouble with him,” Yuri mumbles into Otabek’s shirt. “Yakov ran a ballet summer camp in Moscow that year. He moves it around every summer.”

Otabek glances down at the head of gold but doesn’t say anything. There’s a connection between those two sets of seemingly disjointed statements, but he’s missing a piece of information. 

“_Dedushka _ picked me up from the camp one day and we found _ Maмa _in bed, really sick. She was cold and tired and it took so long for her to wake up. We took her to the hospital. Multiple untreated concussions, a number of internal bruises, two untreated broken bones. Dehydration and severe malnourishment. She never left.”

There it is. 

God, Otabek has never wanted to kill another man so much in his life. 

The younger boy glances at the food that Otabek has all but forgotten and hides his face again. “I went to visit her every day after camp. _ Dedushka _ stayed with her on the weekends. She always sang me to sleep and sent me home with _ Deduska _ when I woke up. And then one day she didn’t wake up.”

“Today?”

“Five-seventeen in the afternoon, according to the doctors. I was asleep.”

Otabek breathes deep and hugs Yuri a little closer. 

“_Deduska _ got custody of me then, and my father fucked off to who knows where. Every so often he would show up at the house or call. _ Deduska _never left me alone with him, never let him speak to me for very long. Eventually he took the hint and stopped trying altogether. Until last year, anyway.”

Yuri seems to find the strength to straighten himself back up and continue tending to the food that his friend has long since forgotten about. Otabek has never felt the kind of longing he feels now - not even the homesickness he gets for Almaty, for his family. This eclipses it easily, because Otabek wants nothing else but to hold Yuri close some more, for both of their sakes. If he had the courage he would ask Yuri for some of the strength that he seems to have found from so young. Even hearing about what the blonde had gone through has left Otabek feeling unusually unmoored. He was lucky; his family isn’t perfect, but they’re still his family. They take care of each other, no exceptions. Otabek can’t imagine his father raising his voice or hitting his mother or threatening him or his sisters. He can’t imagine his mother ever allowing that. 

And yet Yuri got through it. Yuri was _ here_, living and thriving and doing things that had never even seemed possible for Otabek. 

Wherever he gets his strength from, Otabek hopes it will continue to keep him. Because as much as he would like to, there are some battles that Otabek can’t fight for Yuri. He can only help from the side, and hope that it is enough.

They eat next to each other in silence, then clean and prepare for bed without speaking more than necessary. Otabek no longer questions nor cares that Yuri climbs into his bed next to him without so much as asking anymore. He doesn’t mind having him close. What surprises him is how readily Yuri curls up and presses into his side. His fingers find their way to pale blonde again. Their silence persists, and sleep is so close to taking Otabek when Yuri finally speaks again, his voice so soft that Otabek can barely hear him.

“I never said thank you. For everything. For dealing with me and my bullshit and my father and today. For being my best friend. But I am. So thank you.”

Sleep is pulling hard at him now, so Otabek just tightens his hold on Yuri for a bit. He knows. He’s always known.

Maybe this is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I'll leave a light on for you_   
_In the darkest of the night_   
_When your pulse is racing_   
_And the world won't make you right_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> Did I make anyone else cry? This chapter was one of the first I completed of this story, and reading it over months and months later damn near killed me, even though _I was the one who wrote it_. And then when I had to decide on a chapter title, I went with one of the [saddest](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uk1d9bUTJxA) [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QvwhnMZinDQ) I could think of. Look, tropes are tropes for a reason, you know? 
> 
> On a completely separate note, Lay It All On Me and Message in the Wind are from another anime that I've fallen in love with, so there's your next little cameo hunt. You will love it once you find it.
> 
> And final note, my Finals Hell starts tomorrow and doesn't end until Thursday evening, and then graduation on Friday, so I'm giving you all this chapter early. And the next chapter will be out at our regularly scheduled day on Saturday/Sunday. I will be checking for comments and the like and responding as normal, but I won't have the time to edit/review any more chapters until this week is over. So I will see you lovelies on the other side!


	17. High Hopes, Panic! At The Disco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri hatches a crazy, insane, fool's hope master plan, and subsequently drags his best friend into it as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Had to have high, high hopes for a living_   
_Didn't know how but I always had a feeling_   
_I was gonna be that one in a million_   
_Always had high, high hopes_   


Yuri blinks at the violinist in front of him. “You want me to _ what_?”

The Korean kid - Something-Lee - just stares back at him through his fringe of dark hair. “I would like you to partner with me for the annual Sight and Sound Showcase.”

A blonde brow raises. “The hell is that?”

Yuri _ swears _ the kid huffs just a little under his breath, although his face doesn’t change much at all. “A yearly performance put forth in part by _ your _ ballet instructor at the end of the Spring term. People and groups from every area of the performing arts come to the Koch Theater to present their talents. Those who compete receive a sum of money as a prize should they win in their division, but it gives everyone a chance to be seen by companies, troupes, musicians, and artists who might take them on.” The kid lifts his violin case. “I intend on entering with a backing string ensemble, and would like you to dance with us.”

To be completely fair, Yuri _ did _ try to follow what the other was saying, but his mind got sidetracked at the words “sum of money” and “chance to be seen by companies”. And he _ would _ be giving this Something-Lee kid a fair chance and legitimately consider his offer if his sidetracked mind weren’t busy creating a master plan. As things stood, Yuri needed to find Lilia and ask her a few things before pitching this idea to Otabek. 

Something-Lee is still staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. They’re in the middle of the hallway and drawing a crowd. Shit. It’s still early September, everything is more crowded than it needs to be because of new students getting lost.

“Uh, sorry, I’ll have to think about it,” he tosses out over his shoulder as he turns and sprints down the hallway to his ballet studio, dodging people and bags and instruments along the way. Skidding to a stop in the doorway, he very nearly falls over in his haste. Lilia is standing at the speakers, setting up her iPod. 

“Lilia, what’s this about a Sight and Sound Showcase? How much is the first place prize? Who is going to be there?” The questions come tumbling out of him like they wanted to keep running forward while his body put on the brakes.

Lilia at the very least glances up at him, and then glares down at the toes of his sneakers which are about a millimeter too close to her polished floor for her comfort. Her severe gaze comes back up to his face and she _ tsk_s at him. “You should know, Yuri, you were a part of the exhibition at the end of it last year. My ballet class always shows something during the judges’ deliberation period, before the awards.” She looks down at him. “You were one of the _ soloists_, if my memory serves. Surely you haven't forgotten already?”

No, he hasn’t. He doesn’t forget choreography or performances, once he learns them they’re forever a part of his blood. Last spring though … he didn’t pay much attention to what was happening during the hours surrounding his seven-minute piece. He was busy showing up as late as he dared to without incurring his teacher’s wrath, blocking all the bustling people out with his headphones on and music obnoxiously loud, and ditching out a side door with Beka as soon as he was changed. He remembers that he was there, but not the why behind it. Apparently, it was for this showcase thing.

Lilia continues to regard him in her doorway. “As for the prize money, that depends entirely on the division and its backers. I can tell you with certainty that the ballet division prize is fifteen-thousand dollars, thanks to generous backers and the school, and on the caveat that no group enters more than three people. The combined division is at twenty-two-thousand last I checked, although that could change depending on who else donates.”

_ Perfect_.

Yuri’s mind flies through the math in seconds. Otabek’s mother’s surgery costs close to eighteen-thousand including rehab, and the extra left over from the combined division prize will more than cover any extraneous immediate costs. And if he goes for the ballet only division, that can only help. If he enters both, then winning either one will take a huge burden off of Otabek. If by some stroke of luck or fortune or whatever he gets both prizes, the medical bills for the Altins won’t be draining them every month. Otabek can finally get a break from his non-stop work cycles.

Shit, Otabek. Yuri needs to text him and ask-slash-tell him about what he’s planning. The Kazakh will either flip shit and let him do this, flip shit and try (and fail) to stop him, or go along with this willingly. Yuri won’t even take the time to consider not doing this. His fingers are already twitching to his hoodie pocket when Lilia snaps him back to reality. 

“Who are you hoping to impress, Yuratchka?”

Well, good thing he didn’t have his phone in his hand just yet, otherwise he would have dropped it. “_What?_” he splutters.

“Which company?” Lilia walks over to her bag and pulls out her notebook, flipping through the pages. “If you have it in your head to enter, I can’t let you participate in the exhibition piece this year, and I have to know if they aren’t already on my invitation list.”

_ Oh_. He had forgotten about that part. If his showing is good, companies might start asking about him with Lilia. A vision of his mother flicks across his mind’s eye in a heartbeat, and ‘American Ballet Theater’ passes his lips before his brain can even understand the possibility of being a part of the same company his mother was once a guest of. 

Lilia, to his shock, just nods. “I already gave them an invitation and they have confirmed their attendance. I’ve also asked Dance Theater of Harlem, and some contacts from the Bolshoi and the Russian Ballet. There will be high names there, Yuri. Be sure to present accordingly.”

And with that, she turns away and continues to prep the room for the morning class. Yuri toes off his sneakers and carries them into the locker room, dumping his stuff and changing lightning fast before running back to the studio with his phone in hand. The room is still empty save for him and Lilia, so he takes the window of opportunity and prods a little more about the performance. 

“Who can enter the combined division? And where do I sign up?” He wants Otabek and the others to be a part of this _ so damn bad _ it throws him for a loop. He’s never really cared one way or another if he shared the spotlight with other people before, he just wanted to make it to the same stage as his mother. If that meant outshining damn near everyone else, then that what he would do. But this is important twice over; it can bring him closer to that stage, but it can also help Beka and his family. At the very least, Otabek deserves as much of the spotlight as he gets.

“The combined division is open to any and all groups, regardless of size or combination of performing arts. There is a link to the signup form on my faculty page on the school website. Registration closes October fifteenth, so choose your accompaniment wisely. Audition tapes should be in by the thirty-first of November.” 

He nods as he starts frantically formulating a slew of texts to Otabek while he lays flat in his saddle stretch. The other man probably won’t see them until later on in the day, but that’s fine. Yuri needs some time to digest this and plan. He needs music and practice time, obviously, but he’s friends with a DJ who is part of a band, has contacts through Viktor, and has a studio with Katsuki and Lilia. He and Otabek are going to need a theme for the combined piece, and he has to do a whole other one on his own for the ballet only one. Maybe he could ask Mila for help with them…

Lilia’s voice comes again from the end of the room as he shifts into center splits. “I assume you already have some pieces in mind, Yuratchka?”

Yuri absentmindedly shakes his head as he opens his chat with Mila. “Not yet. I need to come up with two pieces soon though. I’ll probably come back after my philosophy and algebra classes and work on them before heading home from now on.”

She eyes him from the side. “You’re thinking of entering two divisions?” At his inattentive hum of response, she _ tsks_ again. “I would not recommend doing both the ballet-only and combined competitions. Your fatigue from one will show in the other, and that’s assuming you aren’t scheduled for both at the same time. I have some pull with the ballet division, but that extends as far as programme scheduling and stage direction.”

Yuri pulls his scowl into the collar of his shirt. He _ hates _ being told that he can’t do something, especially if he hasn’t even begun to try yet. He’ll probably end up doing whatever it is anyway and flip off anyone who thought otherwise while he’s at it, just because he can. He actually respects Lilia though, so he bites his tongue. “I’ll make it work.”

“...Of course you will. I expect no less; I have high standards for my choreography. You will not be showing the biggest names in dance history anything sub-par. I will get in touch with Viktor and Yuuri Katsuki about your other piece.” 

Sorry, _ what? _

Yuri springs up out of his stretch in an instant to stare at Lilia. Her arms are crossed and she’s pulled herself up to full height in a tidy third position. Yuri can almost see the crown she’s put on her own head for how regally she’s standing. He’s always chaffed under an oppressive thumb, and this is the first time she’s pulled that card on him outside of the studio. 

“I am _ not _ working with those two. They would spend more time oggling each other than they would teaching me anything! Besides, they don’t know what I want them to capture.” Sweet Christ, he would lose his mind, he can already see it. Viktor would spend damn near every minute fussing over Katsudon while Katsudon would spend the rest of the time a blubbering mess. 

Lilia will not be moved. “Then I suggest you work out the groundwork for it before seeing them in two weeks. They will help you flesh out the second program. You will see that they can be useful, under the right circumstances. That is the condition for having me choreograph the first piece without formally hiring me.”

Well, shit. Lilia’s work is the stuff of modern-day legend in the dance world. He couldn’t possibly start out in a stronger position than having her choreography, and for _ free_. He’s not the stereotypical broke college student thanks to the summer production, but he definitely can’t afford her rates for the type of work he’ll be doing between now and the end of the Spring semester. If he wants to pull this off - and he _ will, damnit _ \- he’s going to need every advantage he can get. He’s not an idiot, he knows that there are other people out there who can dance as well as he can, have danced longer than he has, have mastered more styles than he has, or even point-blank dance even better than he can. He just needs to impress a handful of people, and Lilia can help him do that. 

_ Goddamnit_. “Fine,” he grumbles out. “Which one is your piece for?” 

“The ballet division,” she replies easily, as though she knew he would give in. “It is one that I’ve been working on for years, modifying it and improving it. I believe you are the only person in the dance world that can make this one shine.”

_ Did she just… _

“After all, your mother and I started this a while back. I think it’s fitting that her son shows the finished piece to the world.”

The conversation ends when she turns to greet the first person other than him to enter the room, leaving him with a slack jaw. Not only new choreography from her, but one that has years of refinery behind it, the touch of his mother’s own hand on it, and her absolute faith that he will find the heart of it and bare it to the world without flaw. Yuri reminds himself to check if he accidentally slipped into another dimension. 

His phone buzzing in his hand brings him back again, if he really did go to a parallel universe at all. It’s Beka. Underneath his stream-of-consciousness flurry of texts describing the competition and all they have to gain from it is a single response from the one person he wanted to share this with desperately. 

> _ I’m in. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, _Sight and Sound_ does exist, but it's not an arts expo. Well, it kinda is? It's a theater that puts on Bible stories as plays and the like. My church (yeah, I'm a Christian, fight me) goes every year. I actually forgot that it existed when I wrote this, and chose the name for this competition because it uses both visual (Sight) and auditory (Sound) arts. It seemed appropriate. My beta actually reminded me about the theater. So I'm taking the time to explain that no, this is not the Sight and Sound theater, or has anything to do with the theater, or even resembles how the theater operates.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Guys. I did it. I passed all those finals. I _ graduated _. I have my bachelors in Chemistry with my minor in Philosophy. I don't know how it happened but I did it. Thank you all so much for your encouraging comments over the last few chapters, it really did boost my spirits during some of the hellish hours. You guys are amazing. 
> 
> And enough of my being wishy-washy, Yuri's hatching another master plan and this shit's huge! Also, Lilia being the unofficial aunt that Yuri actually likes is one of my favorite headcanons.


	18. Master of Tides, Lindsey Stirling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beka is constantly grumpy, and Yuri does absolutely nothing to make it easier on him.

Otabek feels like death, and that’s him putting it mildly. Everything aches, his head is pounding, the light hurts his eyes like he’s staring into the sun and yet the slight October breeze chills him to the bone. 

He hates getting sick.

“For a fall kid you get sick real bad,” Yuri quipps as he shoves a steaming mug of soup into his hands. 

“Yeah, well I don’t normally get sick,” he grumbles back at the blonde. “The last time was literally _ years _ ago.” To be precise, the last time he got sick was the time he walked back home from school and it started raining, back when his cousin still lived here. He walked in soaked to the bone, all of his homework drenched, and his iPod waterlogged. Amer thought he was going to catch hypothermia when he saw him, and wouldn’t let him go to school for the next week on the threat of actually locking him in the loft and taking his key. Otabek distinctly remembers an awful bout of cabin fever after thirty-two hours that left him climbing the walls after he finished his homework and four novels.

He shoots an exasperated glance at his best friend, who convinced Rita, Amanet, and JJ that he should stay in for a week this time, too. He probably would have tried to make him call out of work as well if he hadn’t put his foot down. Otabek doesn’t do well with not working for such a long period of time. Also, he just _can't afford_ to not work for a week. He doesn't _get_ paid sick days. Still, even keeping all of his hours at the radio station and the clubs leaves him hours upon hours to work on stuff.

On that note, Otabek heaves himself up off of his bed and wanders to his workable. If he’s going to be mostly cooped up in his own home for the next week, he might as well get some work done. The muse is right here, might as well see if he likes what Otabek has so far. “Come here, Yura. Listen to this.”

Yuri glides over and drops into a chair next to him, taking the offered headphones and sliding them over his head. Otabek opens up the file he’s been playing around with for the past two weeks and lets it play. 

When Yuri woke him up with a slew of texts that detailed a crazy ass idea that _ just might _ work, _if _ they could pull it off, his first thought was that this would solve so many problems. But that was a very, very big _ if_. It involved a good deal of work on both of their parts (because Yuri made it explicitly clear that he was going through with this, with or without him, and what kind of friend would he be if he let the Russian have all the fun?), and even more luck on top of that. He did promise Yuri a piece for his promotion, but that was long before there were stakes attached to the promise. So he pulled up the work-in-progress he had been fiddling around with for about a year, took a listen to it with new ears, promptly deemed it excruciatingly inadequate, and had started over from scratch. 

The old piece had been good, and would have been something Otabek would have been proud to put out for anything other than this. Maybe some day, later on, he'll look back at it and finish it. When he had started the old one, he had barely known what emotions, what messages he wanted to put into it, let alone how to properly express them. Now though? Now, he knew exactly what he wanted to portray. This new piece would be the culmination of their entire relationship, from start to now, every bump and bruise along the way, every high point and low valley. It would show how the both of them had grown, how they were all better now than they were even a year ago. 

Or it would, once it was complete.

Yuri glances up at him through his hair. “Why’s it so … empty?” He grimaces, as if trying to find a better way to describe what he feels is lacking. “I know you haven’t finished it yet, but it sounds so bland compared to what you’ve made before. Like, even I could fill in some of these parts a little better, and I know jack shit about music theory.”

Otabek just nods as he eats a bit more of his soup. He knows what Yuri is talking about. “You forget that I know barely anything more than jack shit about music theory too, Yura. But yeah, you’re right. I plan on an epic piece, I promised you one after all,” he muses. He pulls open his email in a web browser and starts a rough draft of an email. “There are some things that Rita, JJ, Aman, and I just can’t do on our own. I wanted a vocal, but JJ’s voice doesn’t really suit what I want from certain parts of it. I also need to get us started on recording the layered parts…” he trails off. Yuri is peering over his shoulder and pulls another face.

“Why are you emailing Isabella?” 

“She has a whole adult and youth chorus from her school at her beck and call,” Otabek answers easily. “What better way to fill this out than with a full choir?”

"Okay but why not _text her_? Or Jean-Jerkface? Why an _email_? That's so, like, _ancient._"

Otabek smirks into his collar. "Because I'm asking her through her University's contact. They have to do all the formal release stuff anyway, since we're asking for help from one of the top twenty-five colleges in the country. Isabella's adult chorus is that good."

He lets Yuri turn that over in his head. Yuri deserves as much say in this music as he does, he’s risking a hell of a lot as well. 

Said blonde grunts under his breath. “I want to hear them first. And make them have a lot of different lead singers with a lot of different styles.” Yuri’s eyes are turned to the rafters of the loft, as if the final version is written somewhere up there. “Lilia is making me work with Katsudon and the Old Man for this, and they’ve started mixing dance styles so that I can '_show my versatility_’ or whatever. Might as well make the music match.”

Well. That hadn’t even crossed Otabek’s mind at all. But Yuri is right, it will read well, especially if it can keep the attention of the judges. “I can ask her to pull singers from other groups as well. They’re on Youtube, here.” He holds his hand out for Yuri’s phone and quickly searches up Isabella’s school vocal group. He lets Yuri listen to Isabella while he starts recording a bit more of the backing track. So far, all he has down on the sequencer is the melody, scattered parts of the beat, and the piano line. He needs Rita and Aman to fill in the string sections, of course, so they need to come and record one day soon. Then there’s the issue of vocals. Otabek glances over at Yuri again; the younger man is completely zoned out, eyebrows drawn down low as he concentrates on Isabella’s group. If Yuri is okay with them, then Otabek has to actually write out all of the parts for the groups, send it to them, have both him and Yuri - and possibly Katsuki and Nikiforov - hear the vocals, then tweak as needed. 

Tall orders, indeed.

He chooses not to worry too much about it though. Yuri is switching his headphones for the ones hooked up to his computer and listening to the melody again, a determined look on his face. He’s got an idea, and Otabek trusts his friend’s track record with surprising him. 

* * *

It’s day three of his forced confinement, but he isn’t totally alone today. Yuri is still at school, and will be for another few hours, but the rest of his band-plus-Isabella has showed up - _finally _ \- to start recording with him. If he works a few late nights, he can give Yuri the mostly-finished track by the eighteenth, a week and a half from now, after he registers.

This is always a part of being any type of musician in a group that can be either fun and gratifying, or frustrating and tiresome. Between the fact that he isn’t working his normal hours with the rest of his band this week, has a lot of ground to cover with this, and his cold, Otabek _ does not _ have the patience for the bullshit his friends are putting him through. 

“Jean, _ stop _ flipping the chords around. I have that _ exact same progression _ later on. And play the right inversion of the C please,” Otabek sighs for the fifth time. JJ jumps as though startled and looks at his hands as if to confirm that he is indeed playing the wrong inversion of the C chord. At least he has the sense to correct it on the next pass, but then Aman stumbles out of his vibrato with an awful screech that Otabek didn’t even know the cello could make. Rita rolls her eyes and shows the German again how to play the last few bars, actually wrestling the instrument away from its owner and playing it like she was formally trained in the cello. Hell, maybe she was, Otabek has no clue. So long as Aman can play the entire thing through cleanly once, Otabek doesn’t even care. He barely keeps his voice in check as he clears his recording and tells them to start again.

“Otabek, come listen to this,” Isabella calls from over at the couch. She’s brought a few of her choir people with her, and they’re all huddled around the coffee table, bending over the rough sheet music he’s sketched out. The brother and sister, Sara and Michelle, he likes the sound of their voices, and already he mentally assigns their parts. He’s going to have to find another voice to add to the grouping of Sara and Isabella - another high vocalist, if he can. The African man on the far side of the coffee table is humming under his breath and scribbling as fast as he can, tapping a beat out on the paper every so often. Apparently he’s from one of the cultural groups that Isabella reached out to.

“What’s all this, Bella?” He trusts Isabella much more than he trusts her fiancé - she’s easily the more calm and _ sensible _ of the two, and thankfully she's calmed JJ down a good notch or five - so he’s more than a little surprised when the girls start the intro as backup to the African man, changing the entire sound of what he had originally written into a more African-styled chorus. It’s not _ bad_, but not what he had wanted at all. None of the backing music he has done matches, and redoing all of it to fit this would take another couple of days. They're pressed for time right now as it is. 

Otabek flashes back to his and Yuri’s first actual conversation, in a plaza where they were playing for the first time. Yuri had been disgruntled when he heard that Rita and JJ weren’t keeping to the planned set. Otabek is starting to emulate those thoughts right now. If his best friend were here right now, Otabek would bet twenty dollars that he would say-

“What the hell are you two saying?”

_ Exactly_. Wait what?

Otabek - and the rest of the room, for that matter - freeze and spin around to face the open doorway. Yuri Plisetsky stands in the middle of it, his phone halfway to his ear, and the single most confused look on his face that Otabek has ever seen in his life.

Which makes very little sense, since Yuri shouldn't be here for another hour or so, right? Otabek checks his phone quickly and - nope, apparently it's past five in the afternoon. Somehow the entire day flew by without his notice. 

Yuri zeroes in on Isabella like a sniper. "What the heck were you just singing?"

The African man grins. “Igbo, one of the many languages of Africa.”

“_How unique! Yura, you didn’t tell us you were adding an African feel to this! Yuuri, call Minako-san and ask her if she knows any good African instructors!” _All eyes are drawn to the phone in Yuri’s hand, from which the voice of one Viktor Nikiforov is spilling out from. Yuri blinks at the glowing box in his hand, his mouth opening, and Otabek is so sure that Yuri is going to tell Viktor to fuck off or something. If the blonde doesn't, Otabek sure as hell will.

He isn’t expecting Yuri to backtrack, to _agree_ to an African instructor, that they _'better be fucking good, Old Man'_, or splutter something about calling back later.

What the hell is happening to this world? If this is a fever dream, Otabek wants out of it like, yesterday.

Yuri seems completely oblivious to the amount of attention he’s garnered. He drapes himself over Otabek’s shoulder and points at the sheet music strewn about on the coffee table. “Do it again.”

“Yura?” Seriously, _ what _ is going on?

Yuri just shushes him as those three start up again. Otabek really does try to tamp down on the irrational surge of anger that bubbles up out of absolutely nowhere, and he almost succeeds. Of all people, he expected Yuri to be on his side. They have enough to worry about, they’re making an entire song from scratch and have to have it done in a month. Yuri will have even less time to practice whatever choreography Viktor and Yuuri had already cooked up, and if they change everything now they might not be ready in time. Or even if they are, it isn’t enough time to practice it to perfection; then there’s the chance they won’t make it past the audition stage. 

One look at Yuri’s face, though, and Otabek knows he’s going to end up giving in on this, as much as he doesn't want to. Yuri looks fascinated. Enraptured, really. Otabek sighs to himself and forces his ears to listen and his mind to concentrate on the notes. The stylized version isn’t really all that bad. Maybe he’s just being nitpicky. 

“Alright, alright. We can use it for the beginning if you want, Yura.” The things he does for this boy, honestly.

Yuri can’t smother the grin he’s sporting, and Otabek melts a little. 

* * *

No other piece has given Otabek as much trouble as this one has. By the end of the week he’s getting to the point where he’s getting sick of hearing it, and it’s his _ own composition_. The number of times something got changed is downright appalling, even if he loves the new draft version. The beginning stayed stylized, and then it became a sort of theme for the entire thing instead of the more pop-version he had started out with. The vocal choirs will add and extra dimension to it once Isabella, Sara, Michelle, and Alex - the African man that would be one of the leads - get the groups trained up and recorded. He wants a few more leads, but will leave that up to Isabella’s discretion. The strings and keys are done at least, and as soon as he settles the beat for the added bridge all of the backing music will be done. All in all, Otabek supposes it was worth the figurative and literal headache; normally, when he and the others create something, he can flow easily with them. With this, though, he felt a good deal of stress over the outcome of this piece, like he was being pushed and pulled around with very little control over the music. And his cold certainly didn’t help his mood any. But things worked out in the end. 

Yuri is the one who has his hands full now, though. Otabek checks around his bookshelf to see said man still knocked out. The blonde Russian has been staying over this past week, playing nurse until he deemed Otabek fit enough to return to busking, despite being drop-dead tired himself. Lilia’s been putting him through the wringer, apparently, and that’s saying something compared to what she normally makes her pupil do. He hasn’t seen the whole thing yet, Yuri is surprisingly secretive about this piece, but Otabek has still caught him humming the same strain of music over and over again, or running through a quick flurry of moves when the younger thinks he isn’t looking. He’s living that piece every day.

And all of that is to say nothing of the unique hell that Viktor and Yuuri are putting him through. For the first time ever, Yuri is having problems getting the technical nuances of the new dance styles being thrown at him. Hip Hop, African, Contemporary, even some complex floor gymnastics each have their own problems for the blonde. Their piece is just under five minutes, and Yuri has to blend as many different styles as possible. Otabek knows that his friend can do it, he just hates that it’s pulling so much out of him. Yuri’s more tired than normal because he’s pushing so hard to master two incredibly hard pieces in so short a time with at least one incomplete track, and the Kazakh is getting just a bit worried. 

It’s well after noon when Yuri finally drags himself out of Otabek’s bed and slumps into the kitchen. The older man raises an eyebrow in concern, but Yuri waves him off. Fighting a smile, Otabek hands Yuri a cup of coffee light with cream and sugar. “Drink that, we’re watching a movie after. We definitely earned it.”

“Pull up any of the National Treasure movies and make some popcorn,” Yuri grumbles back as he takes a swig from his mug. Otabek is happy to, so long as Yuri actually unwinds today. His cold is gone and he's in much more amicable spirits, and Yuri is still a spitfire, and all is right in the world. Now, if Otabek can manage to get Yuri to relax, everything will be perfect.

Which he isn’t. A series of syncopated _ thump_s from behind tell him as much. “Yura, stop it. You’ll be back in the studio tomorrow. Rest for now, or you’ll burn out.” He doesn’t even have to look behind him to know that Yuri is marking the hip hop moves behind the sofa. His feet land too loudly when he tries too hard to hit the poses in time. 

Grabbing the popcorn and setting it in a bowl, Otabek walks past Yuri and snaggs his arm, wrenching him out of his dance flow and dragging him down next to him on the couch. Yuri doesn’t even put up much of a fight at this point, he just lets it happen and pouts though his handful of popcorn. 

“I’m going to get it,” he huffs impetuously as the intro credits roll. “Even if it kills me.”

Otabek just rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I know you will Yura.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, Christmas Day is a Wednesday, soooo... MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! I know, I know, this is a bit shorter than usual. The next chapter will be up soon though, so forgive me? Pleeeeease? Also, [Master of Tides](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrutzRWXkKs) has no lyrics, so...
> 
> I'm gonna leave this piece as a surprise for now, let's see if anyone can guess at this artist and song. I purposefully left it really obscure though. You'll see in a few chapters!
> 
> As someone who actually does play with a band, I can confirm that getting a piece of music right can be as annoying as this. Someone might not play something right, someone else doesn't know how to do something else, something just doesn't sound right, someone might want to change the entire damn thing at the last second, the list goes on and on. And it can take weeks for a piece to come together, especially when everyone has other obligations like a job or school. But when it comes together at the end, it's fantastic.


	19. One Step at a Time, Jordin Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation: Win the Sight and Sound is a go people!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _It's gonna happen when it's supposed to happen_   
_And you find the reasons why_   
_One step at a time_   


“Hmm… No.”

Yuri whirls on the silver haired man in the room, visibly two seconds from ripping the other Russian’s hair out. “Just tell me what I’m doing wrong!”

Viktor just shrugs with that dumb smile on his face as he leans against the kitchen table. “You still look too stiff. Stop trying so much. Contemporary is the next closest genre to ballet, how are you going to manage hip hop or African elements if you can’t get this?”

Katsudon pulls out of the choreographed sequence and very nearly puts a hand on Yuri’s shoulder, but living together for the past year has taught the Japanese man better. Instead, he just waves Viktor off and resets the music from the iPod dock. “Let me show you again, Yuri. Remember, ballet is all straight lines and soft curves. Contemporary tends to be more fluid, like water.”

Yuri turns his furious glare on his roommate. “Shut up and dance, Katsudon.” He stomps over to the table where Viktor is still perched and trains his eye on Yuuri. Viktor hits play on the music, and Yuri starts marking every last detail of the contemporary moves. _ Again_.

To be completely fair, he understands what Katsudon is trying to say. Contemporary _ is _ like water, he can _ see _ it. The problem, though, is that he doesn’t know how to move like that yet. He’s spent every waking hour of the last fourteen years of his life perfecting those _ ‘straight lines and soft curves’_. Watching Yuuri right now, his mind keeps thinking that Katsudon is breaking form in every possible way, on purpose, in just the right spots and at just the right angles to look good. It’s like listening to Otabek speak in Kazakh - he gets parts of it because it’s close to Russian, but other parts are a complete mystery to him. Yuri knows the steps and poses here, but getting from one to the next is difficult. And Viktor is _ not helping_. Like, at all. 

Katsudon pulls out of the choreography again. “See? Try to loosen up, you don’t have to strain to reach a lot of these poses.” 

Yuri pushes off of the table, mildly pleased that doing so caused Viktor to stumble just a bit. “Again. In the mirror, this time.” Maybe matching Katsudon pose for pose will help him figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do. It’s a last resort he hasn’t used since he was like ten, but desperate times call for desperate measures. They have to record the audition tape for this in a week and a half, get it in by the Saturday after this one coming. 

He and Lilia already recorded her other one, from four different angles, and Otabek cut them all together perfectly. It reads like a music video, and Yuri is itching to send it in. The form wants him to send them in together though, so it’s been sitting on his laptop for a little while. Even though Lilia’s piece needs more cleanup and might change a bit in the future, she is pleased enough with it right now that she gave him a break to focus on his mixed piece.

Which still isn't done. Almost a month after he first registered. Fucking hell.

Yuri drags his mind back to the present and tries his best to keep up with Katsudon in the mirror. The moves are fast, faster than he’s ever had to do before, and that’s partially what's slipping him up. The African choreo might not be much faster than this, from what he saw, but the stances and movement are even more foreign than this. Hip hop will be no better, he imagines. He’s set to meet with the other choreographer in two days. He needs to get contemporary, it’s the bridge out of his ballet comfort zone. 

“Yuri, you’re still too stiff!”

“Shut up, old man!”

* * *

He was right, Yuri fucking hates African. 

Katsudon and the Old Man poked around a few weeks ago and found someone to choreograph both the hip hop and the African parts. Which is all well and good, he’s started picking apart the dance from the video as soon as he got it. He’s getting faster, thanks to forcing himself through contemporary. Hip hop is actually coming around - not great, but it’s coming. Where contemporary was fast and fluid, hip hop is fast and snappy. Which made sense, most of the hip hop was during a rap section (which came out of nowhere when Viktor opened his big fat mouth and said that it was a good counterpoint to his ballet technique). The _ African _ though...

Roger Jeffrey, Juilliard alumni, veteran of over twenty companies around the world and past instructor of over twenty more, creator and choreographer of five critically acclaimed theatrical productions, and the co-choreographer of his combined piece, was watching Yuri stumble through the African introduction with something akin to a frown on his face. Katsudon and the Old Man were recording from the corners of the ballet studio that Lilia and Yakov graciously reserved for them (read: he demanded to have one of the rooms and pestered them until they gave in).

Roger pulls himself off of the back wall and walks to center floor again. “With me, Yuri. African is very nearly the antithesis of ballet. Trust me, I know how hard it is to switch gears. In ballet, you reach and extend and elongate everything. It’s all clean and crisp and elegant. African is the opposite. Get down low, bend your knees. Exaggerate every move, even if that means breaking form a little. From the top again.”

Yuri is fighting _ so damn hard _ to not snap at the man. He’s nice enough, but his patience with this style of dance has worn through. “I need time to learn the stances. I’m going to keep missing them if I don’t.”

Roger nods. “You can’t make up years of training in any discipline in a few weeks. And even after the end of this year you wouldn’t have come close to mastering any of these styles. For now, we have to get you comfortable enough with the choreography to get you through the audition stage. Then we can drill poses and connections.” He drops into the first pose and waits for Yuri to copy him, before signaling Viktor to start the music.

It’s not even as fast as the hip hop section, the beginning. But Yuri can’t sink into the movements the way Roger does, can’t get his legs to do what the other man is doing. It’s infuriating. He makes it seem so easy, throwing out years of good posture out the window. He has never, _ ever _ had to dance for _ even a second _ with his knees bent inward and his feet in parallel. Compared to him, Yuri looks like a puppet with tangled strings in the mirror. He bites his tongue and drags himself through the minute and a half of African - _ only _ a minute and a half - before they both slide into contemporary. 

Yuri hisses out a harsh sigh between his teeth as the music moves to something he’s a little more comfortable with. He’s not as good as Katsudon, nor as good as Roger, but at least he can flow with it a little better. It’s still taking all of his concentration to keep time, though, because some of the movements are syncopated weirdly. He vaguely registers the “much better Yuri!” from whoever it was as he switches from contemporary to ballet.

He swings to a stop out of a high _ developé _ as the music moves to what would be the hip hop section. Already, just barely halfway through the song, and he’s dead tired. Katsudon is positively glowing from behind his phone. Viktor, though, has that look on his face like he’s seriously considering changing something. “What, Old Man? Don’t go changing everything now. I already have less than a week to get this done!”

“Nothing, Yuri. That was the first time I think any of us have seen the elements strung together.” He taps a slim finger over his lips. “Something is wrong though…”

Jesus Christ, did he not hear what Yuri just said? “What? I know I still suck at African, change it now and I’ll suck even more.”

“No, no, that’s not what he meant!” And here comes Katsudon. “You did great, Yuri. Like Roger said, you can’t perfect a whole new style of dance in a few days. You did a good job just now, better than we expected you to do.”

Still not enough, though. Yuri drags the sleeve of his practice shirt over his face. “So then what is the problem?”

“The choreography!” A lightbulb goes off over Viktor’s head. “Roger, if we do a blend at around two-thirty, then we can tie the styles together. So if Yuri is doing a-”

Said blonde just gapes at the two men who are changing the choreography right in front of him. They can’t be serious, right?

Katsudon grabs him and drags him outside, both of their water bottles in hand. “Here, Yuri. You look about ready to drop.”

Yuri fiddles with the top as he strains to hear the murmuring of the other two men on the other side of the door. “They aren’t really going to change it that much are they? I barely have it down as it is!”

Katsudon humms to himself. “Viktor has a point, the sections look very disjointed. The way Otabek has put together this piece, with so many different elements to it and blended so well, you should try to blend out your choreography too. But they shouldn’t change it too much. You need to be able to do it well enough in a week.”

A bout of anger blindsides him. “‘Well enough’? Fuck you, Katsudon, I’ll get it perfectly in a week, changes or not.” Yuri despises being told what he can and can’t do. Limits were made to be broken, after all.

The Japaneese man just smiles and nods slightly. “Probably. But you know Viktor, he’ll go and get carried away even after you send in the audition tape. I doubt this will be the final version. _That _ will be epic.”

Yuri huffs and downs his water. “Beka asked if I wanted to just use the track or if I wanted some parts to be live. I don’t know. I’d probably have to interact with anyone else on stage with me.” 

“Maybe not. I can pull some of my students who need some more practical hours and get a lighting scheme set up. That way, you get your spotlight, but the vocals and musicians can do their thing too.” 

“No way, are you serious?” Even as he thinks about it, Yuri can see what he would want for a partially live setup. He wants Beka and the others on stage with him, badly. It’ll be like before, down in the subways and on the streets, but with stage hands and spotlights and effects and a killer sound system. It’s tempting.

Fuck it, they’re doing it. “I’m going to ask Beka and the others what they think tonight, but I might just have you do that, Katsudon. I reserve the right to yell at them if they aren’t getting it right.”

The other man just laughs at him. “Sure, Yuri.”

_ Perfect_. This is going to blow everyone out of the water. They won’t know what hit them. He drags Yuuri back inside and tosses his water bottle on top of his duffle. “Oi, Old Man, show me whatever it is you changed.”

* * *

“Yura, it’s after eleven. You have to be up in six hours.” Otabek closes the laptop lid that Yuri is using to watch his recordings on. Not that Yuri notices much, he’s busy scribbling on a notebook, trying to find new combinations to play around with. Viktor and Roger started with a few simple changes, some that helped him go from one style to another, and some were nightmares. So he started changing some things himself. The transition between the somersault-pop-up into the stylized fan kick has him overbalancing so much that he nearly falls every time he tries it full-out. It’s painfully obvious from the video. If he can fit in something else, a step that lets him get his bearings just a little bit more, he can get the kick. Not any kind of turn though, maybe another jump-

A hand carefully slides the notebook from underneath his hand. “Yura.” 

Green eyes flick between brown and his notebook. “Just another five minutes, Beka, I’m almost done, that sequence-”

“-Can wait until tomorrow. Or even Monday. Yuri, the videos are fine. _You _ are fine. We’ll get through the audition, easy. We knew that we wouldn’t be sending in the final version of anything all the way back in September.” Otabek sets the book and the laptop aside and sits down next to him. “It’s been sent in already anyway. We still have time to perfect it, Yura. Don’t go crazy now.”

Yuri tosses the pen down and yanks on his hair. “We could have done better. I could have cleaned up my moves more. You could have practiced more.” All of Yuri’s thoughts follow the stream of _ ‘it’s not good enough'_. He still isn’t solid with the ever-changing combined choreography. It’s still very sloppy and still kind of uncoordinated. And to this day he hasn’t practiced with any of the band or singers in the same room. He’s relying solely on the track; he needs to start blocking where everyone else will be standing so he doesn’t do something dumb like slam into them mid-performance. And if they sing or play differently than the track, they might change a beat or note or something that he’s using as a cue for a move. And then he needs to find a costume, at the very least for himself, at most for everyone else. And he needs one for his ballet piece, shit. He hasn’t practiced that one in over two weeks. Lilia is handling the music for that, at least, but he might need Katsudon’s stage crew again. There’s _ so much they have to do._

Yuri finds himself with his face buried in Otabek’s sweater, the older man playing with his hair. He’s humming some melody that siphons all of the tension and anxiety out of his body. He didn’t even realize he was holding himself so stiff to the point of trembling until one by one his muscles relaxed into his friend’s embrace. 

“We’re going to work on it later. You’ve already pushed yourself so hard these past two months, Yura. You went from not knowing anything about hip hop or African to using both in your choreography. You earned a break, so rest for now.” Otabek keeps his voice soft and low, a faint rumble vibrating through his chest. Yuri knows he’s right, he’s improved a lot in five weeks. It’s still not his high standards that he has for ballet, but with time he’ll get there. 

Otabek’s hand is still in his hair, gently combing through the strands. Yuri lets his eyes close and rests.

* * *

_ Hello Yuri Plisetsky, _

_Thank you for submitting your audition tape for the upcoming Sight and Sound Showcase. We have had many wonderful, diverse, and talented auditions this year; our only regret is that we cannot bring them all to the world in one night. After reviewing all of the auditions submitted from acts and groups from across the Northeast, we are pleased to inform you that you have been shortlisted for the _**_Ballet_** **_Division_**_ and the _**_Combined Arts Division_**_. You will not be required to come to a live audition, and your audition tape(s) will be reviewed closer to the date of the Showcase in order to determine your placement in the programme. Should you have any concerns about placement, the venue, or your act, please contact your division head at __Sight and Sound Showcase Coordinators__. Please note that any major changes to your act should be reported to your division head no later than six weeks before the date of the Showcase. Each act will be given one day during the six weeks before the Showcase to practice on the stage of the competition. _

_ Once again, congratulations on earning a place to complete during our annual Sight and Sound Showcase! We are eagerly awaiting the day to see your final piece come together! _

_ Best regards, _

_ Christina Atterbury _

_ Head Coordinator of Sight and Sound _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll didn't honestly think that I would disrespect my boys like that, did you? 
> 
> But on a real note, African dance is a whole different world than ballet, and if you don't start from young it's gonna be hard to get later, same as any other type of dance. It's particularly hard for people who have had strict ballet training and have nearly mastered it; conversely if you do both at once you probably won't master either. Jack of all trades, master of none and all that. So dancers who show high proficiency in multiple areas are rare and highly sought after.
> 
> I have personally trained under Christina Atterbury and Roger Jeffrey before, and i can say with certainty that they have shaped me into the dancer and person that I am today. While I am nowhere close to calling myself a _prima donna_, they've given me my solid base and pushed me past proficiency and into artistry. So here is my little tribute to them.


	20. Known, Tauren Wells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri is an ass (of course), Beka is patient (as per usual), and Yuri finally gets some things straight (fina-fucking-ly).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I'm fully known, and loved by you_   
_You won't let go, no matter what I do_   
_And it's not one or the other_   
_It's hard truth and ridiculous grace_   
_To be known, fully known, and loved by you_   


“Fucking snow,” Yuri grumbles as he sloshes through yet another puddle of ice-dirt-water-who-knew-what-else. He hikes the large messenger bag with a loop pedal and like thirty chords out of the way of another mountain of snow. Otabek grunts in agreement from behind him, carrying his second bag of tech gear. He just got off from work at his radio job down in Tribeca, having done a double shift running him from mid-morning till five. Yuri was out of school and just happened to catch up with his best friend as they were both heading topside from the train. Which was the singular good part of today, since the older man wouldn’t be staying at his loft very long. Otabek had a gig at eight - in an hour - at one of the clubs, and Yuri was going to spend the night trying to not be a complete failure at the basics of hip hop after he walked Beka to his bus. He wouldn’t even begin to ask how anyone found mid-December New York winter an appropriate time to go clubbing, but Beka still had work, so he’ll just leave it at that.

“Make sure you eat something before you start, dumbass. And keep some water next to you.” The Kazakh man had already admitted to skipping lunch in favor of the extra hours, and Yuri nearly hit him. Now, though, he just smiles easily and agrees as he shoulders the messenger bag. 

“I will, Yura. You make sure you don’t go insane up there.” He jerks his head up in the general direction of his loft, three blocks away. The bus is pulling up to the corner, and Yuri just mumbles a half-hearted ‘yeah’ as the taller man boards. One last wave, and Yuri walks back to the loft with Beka’s keys in hand. His phone is already out with the video Katsudon sent him playing. By the time he gets inside again, he’s already played through it twice.

Yuri supposes he’s been spoiled, having a teacher or instructor present at all times up until now. They always catch when his posture slips or when he’s not doing something right, and they can call him out on it and show him how to do it correctly. Even marking the moves behind them, in the reflection of a mirror, is better than having to rely on a video to teach the basics. He can never really tell if he’s copying the poses right. They _ feel _ right, or as right as they can for being such a weird genre, but if they don’t _ look _ right it doesn’t really matter how they _ feel_. Not to mention some of the moves are done so fast that he can’t really tell _ what _ exactly they’re doing in the video. Playback speed can only go so far, and it blurs the quality anyway.

“What the actual fuck?” he murmurs to himself as he rewinds the video again. The footwork on this is a whole new level of hell. He’d take on the Dance of the Little Swans over this nonsense. Forget the hands, there’s too much going on there for him to tackle right now. On the third time playing it back he understands the footwork, and understands that the hands are moving in the opposite direction, but for the life of him he can’t do the move right without stumbling out of it. Not even after spending the better part of an hour on it.

Maybe he’s at that ‘over practiced’ point with this one. He pulls up another video Katsudon sent him and starts breaking that one down. This guy is at least explaining what he’s doing as he’s doing it, so Yuri can sort of follow along. The difference is that this is a harder routine than the first video, so after another hour and a half he’s only gone about a minute and a half into the ten-minute video. “How the fuck does anyone do this crap?” he growls as he switches videos again. 

Fuck, the African one. He doesn’t even want to deal with that, but he needs to get better. These are supposed to be generic viral dances that would _ ‘help him get the counts that they use’ _ or whatever. The counts were never the problem, African likes to deal in threes with an accent on the third beat more often than not, or in twos with an accent on two and four. That’s not hard to get, it’s literally in the music. His body just isn’t trained to move that way yet. Even practicing with the tutorial video he still feels out of his element and awkward and probably looks like a complete idiot. 

“Hey, Yura.”

_ Sweet fucking hell! _ “What?” Yuri whirls on Otabek, who was halfway through the door and shaking off snow from his head. At the blonde’s caustic tone he looks up with an eyebrow raised, and embarrassment at having been caught looking like he’s never danced a day in his life and the last vestiges of being startled color him red. And that pisses Yuri off even more. “_What _?”

The dark eyebrow arches higher. “Everything okay?”

“Just fucking peachy.” Yuri scowls to himself and viciously kicks off his practice flats, letting them fly wherever the momentum took them. Sucking his teeth when one sails into the kitchen and behind the table, he yanks his hair out of its ponytail and stomps to get the closer one. Otabek simply fetches his other shoe and quietly hands it back to Yuri, who _ almost _ stops himself from snatching it from him. Dimly, he realizes that he’s not even really angry at Otabek, he’s just angry in general and the older male just happens to be in the blast range. 

Said older man just sighs softly and walks back to the kitchen and out of Yuri’s line of sight. Not that he cares, he just wants time to seethe and sulk in peace on the couch. He’s more than justified after today’s shitty lack of progress. But after half an hour of not being acknowledged, Yuri hasn’t calmed down at all despite the normally soothing noises of Otabek cooking. If anything, it has the opposite effect now - he wasn’t mad at Otabek earlier, but he’s starting to get there.

The Kazakh walks back over and drops a plate of chocolate-stuffed _ blini _ in front of him with a glass of apple juice. Yuri casts a distrustful look up at Otabek from under the hood of his sweater, who ignores it and sits on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table. 

“You aren’t actually angry with me, at least I think so, because I don’t think I did anything that would upset you. But you’re upset, and I just want to help. So you’re going to eat, stop thinking about dance for today, and get some rest. Got it?”

The scoff escapes before Yuri can check it. “Sure, _ Dad_. Do I have a curfew too? When should I be in bed by? Can I wear the dinosaur pjs?” 

Yuri wants to physically punch himself when the words leave his mouth. One would think he could at least be civil when Otabek is being so patient and understanding, but _ no_, he has to be a sassy asshole to the one person who can tolerate him. Another thing he can add to his ever-growing parade of failures and fuck-ups. He turns away and pulls deeper into the hood of his sweater, silently willing the other man to just leave him alone so he can go back to wallowing.

“Not gonna work, Yura.” Otabek shifts so that he sits in Yuri’s line of vision again, still on the floor, so that the only way Yuri can continue to block him out is if he shoves his face into the back of the couch. “You aren’t scaring me off that easy. I’ve heard worse. Come on, eat up and we can binge a show for a little.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri grumbles, but it’s lost a sizeable portion of its heat. 

“You don’t really want me to, so no. Come and eat.” Otabek isn’t even bothered, damnit. It’s like he could do this whole _ caring _ thing clear into tomorrow. Yuri can actually feel the anger sliding out of him, breath by breath, at how calm Otabek is. What’s left behind is the realization that he’s nothing but a complete asshole and probably the worst best friend on the face of the planet.

Yuri pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his head in his arms. “Goddamnit, I’m such a mess,” he mumbles to himself. The couch dips by his toes and a hand plops down on his head.

“I wouldn’t really call you a mess, Yura,” Otabek muses. Yuri hadn’t even thought that his friend had heard that. “You’re stressed, and I scared you when I walked in. You’ve had a lot to deal with these past few months, I’m kind of surprised you haven’t snapped sooner.”

“So? I was still a dick and you didn’t do anything.” He doesn’t make any move to shake off the comforting hand, but Yuri certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves it. “I’m a shit best friend.”

“Hey, stop that.” The hand on his head lightly bats at him before going right back where it was. “Everyone has their limits. You’re pushing yours, and that’s not good. Which is why I want you to relax now. You need it, but you also earned it.” The hand starts shaking him until he finally looks up to see Otabek’s kind face, free of judgement and full of affection. “You’re still my best friend, Yura, that isn’t going to change. Ever. No matter what.” 

“Even if I’m a complete ass?” 

“Even if you’re a complete ass that doesn’t know how to load a dishwasher and can’t tell a bay leaf from a basil sprout.”

“Dick.” Yuri shoves Otabek over and reaches for the plate of cooling _ blini_. Otabek laughs and snatches the remote up, switching the TV to Netflix and pulling up _ Attack on Titan_. 

* * *

It’s ten past two, as best Yuri can guess. He and Otabek quit their anime binging at half past one and got ready for bed. Not that Yuri can get to sleep, he’s too busy being plagued by his shitty attitude earlier and his friend’s unending patience.

Yuri really needs to get his crap together and stop treating Beka like shit. The perfect jerk doesn’t deserve him being an insufferable brat all the time. Yuri certainly doesn’t deserve Otabek as a friend. 

_ “You’re still my best friend, Yura, that isn’t going to change. Ever. No matter what.” _

“Don’t know why you are, dumbass,” Yuri mumbles into his pillow. 

Otabek is the first person after his mother and grandfather who has seen the literal hellbeast that Yuri can be, the first person past his blood family who hasn’t run the first chance he got or tried to change Yuri or treat him like a little kid. He handled all of the shit with his father as easily as breathing, treated it seriously and stood in Yuri’s corner resolutely without prompting. He easily fit in when Yuri went to visit his mother’s memorial, didn’t question anything, had understood immediately. He cools Yuri’s anger in minutes, with little more than a few words and touches. He gives Yuri room to grow into whoever he wants to be while standing at his side. He isn’t frightened off at every little bump along the way.

Fucking perfect jerk, always seeing straight through him. 

_ Why_, though? Otabek has seen every hidden inch of Yuri and all of his messes, all of his baggage. Why the hell anyone would put themselves through the headache of dealing with him is far beyond Yuri. It would have been easier to leave, like so many other people have. His father did, and he was his blood family.

But for some unfathomable reason, Otabek stayed. 

The only other people who did that, who stayed through hell and high water, were his mother and grandfather. 

_ Oh. _

Yuri makes the connection easily, and he’s not all that surprised.

His mother and grandfather stayed not only because they were family, despite his being a handful at best and a downright terror at worst, because they loved him. Otabek stayed despite all of the bullshit he’s put the other man through. Otabek loves him too. 

His mother and grandfather are the only other people who ever managed to get close enough to see the ugly sides of Yuri. But they’re different, they were around since Yuri was little, they knew him before he ever really knew himself. A little more than a year ago, Otabek was nothing more than a stranger. One of thousands of people that Yuri passed every day without much thought. Now, Yuri can’t think of life without the Kazakh in it. Even if he finished Lilia’s program and went back to Russia and his grandfather, he wouldn’t even consider leaving Beka behind. It’s easy for him to imagine them Skyping for hours on end, texting as much as they do now, finding a new rhythm that’s just for them despite the distance. Otabek is just _ there_, no matter where Yuri goes or what he does. Even years and years from now, he wants to end up back here, coexisting with Otabek easily. He wants his best friend to keep calming him down with sweets he isnt supposed to have. He wants years and years of their stupid banter and spats over who does the dishes and gaming so late that they regret it in the morning. All of it, with Otabek, because he's the only one who _gets him_.

He doesn't deserve Otabek. But he isn’t going to let him go. 

Guess he loves Otabek too. Again, not a real shocker.

Yuri stares into the moonlit darkness of Otabek’s loft. Nothing shifted, the world didn’t end, there wasn’t some angelic choir singing in the background to grand fanfare. All in all, the realization that Otabek loves him and that he loves Otabek back isn’t a big deal at all. It’s a small, quiet thing that he holds close, along with the memories of his mother and his adoration of his grandfather and his love of dance. It’s gentle, to match its object and source - Otabek. Yuri instinctually feels the need to keep it tucked away from prying eyes, to share it just with Beka. 

Unless he’s wrong...

Quietly, Yuri turns himself over to look at his best friend. He doesn’t look any different. Otabek still has the same messy undercut and same square jaw, the same low brows and deep-set eyes. His skin is still the same light tan and he still sleeps halfway on his side like a weirdo. He’s still Beka. He’s still the man Yuri loves, has loved for probably a long time. 

One of those deep-set eyes cracks open a sliver. “What’s keeping you up?”

Even the same tenor voice. The same soft concern for Yuri. The same fondness and affection that’s kept just for him, the same trust that Yuri gives back. It’s possible that Yuri could be wrong. But he doesn’t think he is.

“Nothing bad,” Yuri responds softly, for once taking the time to choose his words. 

“Something good then?” Otabek opens his other eye to see a little better, a small smile inching its way across his face.

“Yeah,” Yuri whispers. “Something good.”

Leaning just a little bit farther to close the gap between them, Yuri shoves the small tendril of uncertainty down as he kisses his best friend. It’s small and light, nothing more than their lips meeting for a second or two, but it’s enough to let Otabek in on his newfound secret. He draws back hesitantly, his small moment of courage gone as he ducks his head beneath Otabek’s gaze. If he just ruined one of the most important bonds he’s ever had, he doesn’t want to face it just yet. He wants a few seconds to hoard that small moment of joy in case he won’t get it again. 

He can feel Otabek’s hand trace its way up his arm and over his shoulder, across his collarbone to tenderly cup his cheek. A thumb softly swipes under his eye before forcing him to look up. Yuri can’t fight it, even if he wanted to. He meets his friend’s eyes again and feels the breath stolen from his lungs. 

If Yuri was uncertain before, the feeling is gone now. Otabek looks back at him with more love than he ever thought possible. He’s gently pulling Yuri back, closer, until Yuri can feel his heartbeat through his chest. And then his lips are back on Otabek’s at the slightest nudge from the fingers on his chin. This time, Otabek doesn’t let him draw away, he chases Yuri and reels him back easily, and Yuri lets him. The hand slides into his braided hair, pressing them closer together still. They don’t part for an eternity. 

“Something good, huh,” Otabek murmurs as he presses his forehead into Yuri’s. Yuri just blushes and tucks his head under Otabek’s chin, letting the older man wrap his arms around his smaller frame. 

“Yeah. Something good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
> 
> After *pauses and counts back to chapter 7* 13 whole chapters of Beka quietly pining off in the corner they're <s>almost</s> together! Happy New Year!
> 
> Also, I'm back to trying to describe dance with words. I think I did better this time around, though. I dunno. Is it better?
> 
> [Known](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xckDgX8xNfg) is just ... super chill and heartfelt and sweet and I just had to use it. Like I heard it and it was one of the songs that just clicked with what I had written.


	21. Can’t Help Falling In Love, Pentatonix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Wise men say_   
_Only fools rush in_   
_But I can't help_   
_Falling in love with you_   


Otabek is conscious long before he bothers to open his eyes. That’s okay, though, because he’s over-the-moon happy.

Yuri is still wrapped around him, his blonde hair tickling his chin and his breath softly ghosting across his chest. Otabek himself has his arms securely around the smaller man with no intention of letting go soon. Their limbs are tangled together, each wrapped around the other like they can’t get close enough. Later, much later, he’ll worry about letting Yuri go. But for now, he’ll just enjoy this simple pleasure of having Yuri without guise or denial. 

Said male stirs the slightest bit and buries his face further into Otabek’s chest. “Don’t wanna get up,” he mumbles, to which Otabek fondly huffs a laugh as he presses a light kiss to gold hair. 

“Then stay here.” 

Yuri shifts his head a little, just enough to look up at Otabek though his eyelashes. The light from the window catches in his eyes, reflecting all around like it’s trapped inside of a tourmaline gemstone. It renders Otabek breathless. The younger stays silent as he lifts a hand, reaching out of the covers to lightly trace over the planes of his face. His touch is so light, like he’s afraid of hurting Otabek, like he’s afraid to ask if this is real. As those pale fingers pass by his cheek, Otabek catches them in his own and curls them around his own to bring them to his lips in a soft kiss. This is real, it’s real for Otabek, it’s as real as Yuri will let it become. 

Otabek presses another kiss to Yuri’s knuckles, theen presses their intertwined hands over his heart. “I won’t push, Yura, if you don’t want to do this, or if you’re uncomfortable with something-”

He’s cut off as his hand is squeezed almost painfully. “I want this, of course I want this!” He’s so very close to panicking, his voice a mix of incredulity and longing, probably thinking that Otabek will leave. Silly. Nothing in this world could keep him away.

“Good,” Otabek breathes as he hugs Yuri closer, “because I want this too. More than you know, Yura.” 

Yuri flushes just a little, cheeks and nose and the tips of his ears going a light shade of pink. He’s trying to gather the courage to say something and it shows on his face, clear as day. It’s endearing and Otabek thinks he’s beautiful. “When did - I mean, how long?” Yuri turns his eyes to their hands, still resting on Otabek’s chest, and starts to play with them, pushing and pulling his fingers this way and that to avoid looking up at Otabek.

“A little more than a year. That first time you came with me to one of my gigs, and Mila tagged along.” Otabek remembers vividly how enamored he had become over Yuri in those days afterwards. He had thought that his feelings were dangerous and had tried valiantly to hide them. But it had still slipped through, no matter how careful he had been. 

The pink deepens to a ruddy red and starts to creep up Yuri’s pale shoulders. His voice shrinks to a low murmur. “That long…”

Otabek shrugs lightly, tugging Yuri up for a proper kiss. “A year is nothing Yura. And I don’t regret a single minute of it. Every moment I got to spend with you was perfect, and I wouldn’t give them up for anything. You were my best friend before, you’re still my best friend now, and the fact that I love you doesn’t change that. It’s its own thing.”

Oh, now Yuri’s burning up in his arms, and Otabek can’t hold in his laugh. Indignantly, Yuri hits him in the chest lightly, not hard enough to actually hurt, but hard enough. It only makes Otabek laugh harder, and Yuri makes like he’s about to jump out of the bed and run off. The Kazakh catches him around the waist before he can, drawing him back against his chest. The Russian puts up a token fight for all of a half minute before huffing and gumbling a half-hearted ‘jerk’ as he relaxes. It doesn’t bother Otabek, he knows that Yuri doesn’t actually mean it. 

“I love you too, I guess,” he finally returns, grabbing his hand again. “I mean, I just realized it last night, but I guess I’ve loved you for a while. I don’t know when it started.” 

“Oh yeah?” Otabek is intrigued. It took Yuri dancing like temptation incarnate in the haze of a club for Otabek to realize he felt more for Yuri than just friendship. He wonders what did it for the blonde. “How?”

Yuri shrugs. “You’re, well, you’re you. You understand me when I’m in a mood, you know how to bring me back from it, you do all this super nice stuff for me. You get me. Only _ Dedushka _ and _ Maмa _ were ever like that, and I know they love me. So I figured you did too. Otherwise why would you put up with my shit?” He pauses for a second. “I guess I figured out that first. And then I thought about, I don’t know, the future and shit, like what I would do, and no matter what I came up with, you were always there. I couldn’t picture anyone else in my life more important than you or _ Dedushka _ or _ Maмa_. I wanted you around, forever.”

So Yuri wants him around in the future too? Damn him if that doesn’t make his heart swell. “How did you see us in the future?”

Otabek feels Yuri tighten his grip on his arms. “We’re living together eventually, even if it takes years, and you’re still doing your music thing and I’m still dancing. You always help me stretch before I leave and I always have something ready for dinner for when you get back from one of your gigs. We can sleep in the same bed, as close as we want, or on the couch, or wherever. And I don’t have to think about whether or not it’s okay to just kiss you.”

“Well, now you can. Whenever you want.” To prove his point, Otabek turns Yuri’s head and gives the younger man a kiss. It leaves them both smiling dumbly at each other.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Otabek humms slightly. “I was always afraid of letting you know and driving you away. You were a shining star, you always have been, and I just thought that it would be better to keep you as a friend rather than risk losing you.” He hugs Yuri a little tighter and thinks over their relationship. “A part of me was convinced that you wouldn’t leave, and that I would only hold you back.”

“Dumbass.” Yuri lightly kicks him in the shin. “You could never do that. I’d rather have you around. Everyone else is kind of stifling. You’re not. With you, I can breath.” 

Otabek feels his own face grow warm and his heart swell even more. “Well I guess I’m doing something right then,” he murmurs. Yuri grips his fingers tightly.

“So...what are we Beka?”

Well, that is the question isn’t it? What do they call this? He loves Yuri, that much is as certain as the sun rising when the moon sets, and Yuri loves him as certain as the east is far from the west, and that’s more than enough for him. He doesn’t care for titles or the like. “What would you like us to be, Yura?”

Yuri shrugs half-heartedly. “I don’t know. I want…” He trails off and starts pulling on Otabek’s fingers again. The older man just waits, patiently waiting for Yuri to get his thoughts in order. “I want to be like, dating or whatever, but I don’t want to lose what we already have. I don’t want things to change that much. Is that bad?”

“What do you mean? What would we lose?”

“I mean-” Yuri sighs and curls a little more into himself, “I want to be able to still come over whenever and stay up all night and binge movies or play video games, or still play with you guys when you busk, and still be close like this.” He squeezes Otabek’s hand quickly. “I don’t want things to change.”

Otabek squeezes back. “Then we don’t have to change that much. You can still stay over as much as you want, and you can still play with us. We can still go on dates and still be close and kiss and stuff like this. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.” He drops his forehead into the sea of gold in front of him. “We can do this however you want to, Yura. I will be happy with anything and everything.”

“Okay,” Otabek hears. “Then...can we be boyfriends? And do all of our normal stuff and still get to like cuddle and all of that?”

Shit, Otabek loves this man. “Anything you want, Yura.”

* * *

They’re rudely pulled out of their quiet blissful state by Yuri’s phone going off. It’s owner scowls and lobs a pillow at it somewhere past the foot of the bed. Otabek flicks his forehead gently as he gets up and hands him his phone. Yuri’s scowl deepens at Katsuki’s name on the caller ID. “What, Katsudon?” he growls as he sits up. Otabek crawls back and wraps himself around Yuri from behind, his longer legs bracketing Yuri’s smaller form and his stronger arms wrapping around his middle. Damnit all if Yuri doesn’t feel his anger slithering away.

Katsudon is a second from hunting Yuri down with a SWAT team, demanding to know where his flatmate is. Yuri hadn’t meant to forget to tell Katsudon that he wasn’t going back last night. He honestly just forgot. There were more pressing things for him to worry about. “I’m fine, you idiot, I’m at Otabek’s place. Relax, I’m not dead.” Yuri isn’t completely cold-hearted. 

_ “Oh thank God, you had us worried sick Yurio! Text me or Yuuri next time, _ please_, before I die an early death! We couldn’t bear it if we lost you!” _ Yuri rolls his eyes as he hears Viktor in the background dramatically dropping onto the floor. Not even Katsudon is amused, boredly telling his boyfriend to shut up. 

“Listen to your better half, Old Man. I’m fine, now leave me alone.” He wants to go back to cuddling with Beka now, please and thank you.

_ “Remember that you have to meet with Roger in a few hours, Yurio. You may be just about done with all of your other classes for this semester, but you need to keep working on your pieces. You’re going to be working more than last year at this time.” _

Oh shit, he had completely forgotten about that too. Fucking hell. “Damnit, alright, fine. I’ll be there Katsudon, don’t get your pants in a twist. I have my practice clothes here, I’ll meet you all at the studio after lunch.” He barely waits for his flatmate’s ‘goodbye’ before he ends the call and leans back into Otabek’s embrace. Said man just holds him a bit tighter.

“You’re back to work then?” he asks into Yuri’s hair, to which Yuri gives a despondent sigh.

“Yeah. At one, that’s when Roger is done with his other team.” Well damn, Yuri was hoping to spend more time with Otabek (_his fucking _ boyfriend_, suck that!_). He grumbles and sinks further into the cocoon of Beka’s arms. He doesn’t know why, but all of a sudden it’s like he can’t have his fill. He hasn’t even left yet and he feels like they haven’t seen each other in months. Fuck the fact that he has a few more hours yet before he has to leave, fuck the fact that he can come back here after practice, fuck the fact that they have the rest of their lives, Yuri feels starved of Otabek’s presence. If he could never spend another second away from the older man, he would die happier than any other person walking the face of this planet.

Said boyfriend just holds him for a little while longer. He seems reluctant to part from Yuri as well, and Yuri takes it as a small comfort. At least he’s not the only one who wants more time. But then Beka breaks their little silence. “Let’s do something before you go to practice. We can go to Rockefeller Center and ice skate. And then we can grab lunch after.”

Yuri gives his boyfriend an incredulous look. “Beka, what the fuck? You know how to ice skate?” This is news to him.

“Yep. Rita dragged me a few times. I’m no figure skater, but I can hold my own. I can teach you.” Otabek nudges his shoulder. “Well? It can be our first official date.”

Yuri scoffs. “I can do all those fancy figure skating tricks in a studio. It can’t be that hard. Let’s go.”

* * *

Yuri lands on his ass on the ice again and nearly curses his laughing boyfriend. But there are little children around, and he promised to _ ‘behave, Yura’_. So instead he sticks his tongue out at a still snickering Otabek.

“Maybe don’t try a backflip when you can’t even circle the rink without crashing into something,” the brunette says as he easily hauls Yuri up and off of the ice. Yuri struggles to find his footing as the thin blades slide under him. Otabek, on the other hand, stands firm despite Yuri’s flailing limbs.

“Leave me alone,” Yuri growls. “I can do a backflip, you’ve seen me do one before.” Otabek just shrugs lightly, not even bothering to deny it. He has, after all. Among other things, including oversplits and a split mid-air. 

“Here,” he says, showing Yuri how to stop for the third time. “If you don’t want to use the inside edge of the blade to stop, use the toe pick. Just be careful when you put it into the ice, too deep and you’ll end up face-planting again.” And with that, Otbaek skates a small circle around Yuri, even drifting backwards for a second or two, before lightly stabbing his toe pick into the ice and coming to an easy stop back in front of the blonde. “Come on, you try.”

He holds a hand out to Yuri, and Yuri rolls his eyes and takes it, letting Otabek drag him forward a few feet. He can get going easily enough, stopping is just a bitch. But he’s better than an hour ago when he couldn’t even stand still for more than a few seconds. In a few glides he’s level with Beka again, and then pushing forward. Soon enough they’re racing around the rink, Yuri still dodging the other people a little wildly as his boyfriend slips between them like water. But he’s laughing, full and loud, and Beka’s laughing back, and he’s having fun.

In a second Otabek catches up to him, tugging him a little closer to the inner ring, where there’s less of a crowd. They don’t dare venture into the small ring of cones, there are professional figure skaters doing jumps and spins and crap in there and neither of them are dumb enough to think that they stand a chance with them. So what, Yuri thinks, they can keep that so long as he can have Beka.

“Do that ballet pose you do, Yura.” Beka’s drifting backwards again, and Yuri mocks him in a baby voice.

“Which pose, dumbass? There’s, like, a half million.”

“The one where you’re on one leg and the other is in the air and your arms-”

Cue another dramatic eye roll. “An _ arabesque_, idiot. And how?” Honestly, Yuri’s a bit intrigued. It’s rare that Beka comes up with a crazy scheme, so when it does happen, Yuri is one thousand percent on board.

Otabek catches his hand again and guides it to his shoulder. “Put your hands here, and lean on me, I’ll hold you. Trust me.”

“Drop me and it’s your funeral,” Yuri quips as he places his other hand on Otabek’s shoulder. He yelps when the older man speeds up, glancing behind him to guide them around the bend. As soon as they’re on the straightaway again Yuri tightens his grip and raises his left leg, dropping into a modified _ arabesque_. At the same time, Otabek lowers himself onto one knee, wrapping his hands around Yuri’s waist and supporting him easily. It’s cold as all fuck outside, but Yuri is burning up from the deepest core of his being. They ignore the murmurs of the crowd as they circle around again, Otabek standing back up as he drops his leg.

“Again,” Yuri demands, because now he has to one-up that move. “I’m going to jump. Don’t drop me.”

“Got it.” Otabek has a matching shit-eating grin across his face and then they’re off, Otabek drifting backwards again. Yuri takes a breath and tenses for a jump as soon as Beka’s hands are around his waist once more. He digs his toe pick in and jumps, feeling his boyfriend catch his weight and lift him higher than he’s ever been from the ground during a jump. He feels his form waning as they barel towards the opposite side of the rink, so he tightens his core and pushes his extension. Beka grins up at him and easily turns them back around so that he’s skating forward and around the cones. Yuri feels like he’s flying, and its euphoric. The soft wind pushing his hair back and slipping between his fingers is something like jumping across a stage. Yuri’s simply happy, nothing else clouding his mind. He’s happy, having fun with Beka.

They don’t even need to signal each other, they move in tandem, Otabek gently lowering Yuri back down to the ice as Yuri finds his footing gliding backwards. There’s clapping all around them, and a few little girls across the rink squeal, and it wakes them up from their little trance. It’s okay though, Yuri thinks, because this was so much fun. They’re both sporting a blush - Otabek just has a light dusting of pink across the top of his ears and his temple, but Yuri can feel that his entire face flaming red as they stumble off of the ice and over to their stuff. They return the rental skates with an extra hour to spare before Yuri has to meet with his choreographers. 

“There’s a bakery on the way,” Otabek says as he flips through his phone. His mouth and the tip of his nose is buried in his scarf and the fringe of his undercut is messy and windswept, and Yuri thinks that he’s never looked better.

“Okay,” he breathes, “let’s go.” He holds his hand out expectantly, grinning when Otabek takes it and stuffs both of their entwined hands into his deep pockets. He can’t fight the smile that appears as a kiss is pressed to his temple. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, because I couldn't not put some form of ice skating into this monster. I am weak. Leave me alone. Also, first dates. Also also, Yuri continuing to be a goddamn prodigy at skating because how could he not? He would be the one to figure out how to do tricks immediately.


	22. Flaws And All, Beyoncé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I neglect you when I'm working_   
_When I need attention I tend to nag_   
_I'm a host of imperfection_   
_And you see past all that_   


“Hmm. That will be all for today, Yuri.” Lilia stops the music for his ballet piece and begins to pack up. Yuri acknowledges his dismissal with a bow to his instructor, but doesn’t make his way to the locker room. This room is still empty for another hour, and his next class is around that time too. He can squeeze in a few more minutes of practice before he has to go looking for it. New semester, new schedule. 

Snagging his phone from the corner of the room, he ignores Lilia’s stare as he hooks it up to the sound system. “No jumps, Yuratchka. And make sure you eat something before you leave campus today.” 

“Yes, Lilia,” he sighs. He’s not an idiot, he knows better than to try the killer jumps she has planned without her there to monitor. God forbid he lands wrong and fucks something up, that would ruin absolutely everything. He’ll eat later. He’d rather keep the flow going now. Thankfully, she doesn’t comment further and leaves him to his practice. He glances in the mirror to make sure his starting pose is correct and waits for the music to start.

Three months. Three months of wrestling with his new choreographies and slowly, _ slowly _ starting to master them. He guessed correctly a few weeks back, that Lilia would modify her choreography in bits and pieces as time went on. He just wants to run the program through a few times to solidify the new sequences in his bones before he forgets them. He knows four different versions now, each harder than the last, and Yuri isn’t eager to start mixing them up in his head by accident.

He’s lifting up out of a _ penché _ when he feels his supporting leg start to waver. Painfully. So much that he can see his muscles shaking. Yuri grits his teeth and powers through it, keeping his timing to transfer into an _ attitude promenade_. The little episode is nothing he pays mind to, since it’s been happening a lot lately. It’s expected when he’s pushing his body so much. He wants to get this right.

The extra hour of practice flies by with Yuri feeling like he’s remembering more of the choreography, and his body aching like he’s been in a fistfight. Changing and letting his hair down takes more time than he cares to admit because of the soreness, and it eats up the little bit of time he allowed himself to cool down before stats. He’s a bit surprised to see Mila hanging around outside the studio for him after he’s changed. 

“Hey kitten,” she coos as she wraps an arm around his shoulder and drags him towards their shared stats class. Yuri mumbles something akin to a ‘hey’, but that’s about all he’s capable of. The fatigue of almost five hours in Lilia’s presence and skipping breakfast has hit him all at once, and he can barely keep his eyes open. At this point even the casual weight of Mila’s arm on his shoulder feels like a whole extra bag that he has to trudge along with.

He completely misses Mila’s look of concern, because the next thing he’s aware of is a set of manicured nails holding a large triple-espresso coffee and a danish. He has no fucking clue where or how she conjured them, so just chalks it up to the redhead picking up sorcery somewhere along the line. They also must have teleported across campus, because now they are in their stats class and Yuri has absolutely no idea how they got there. 

“You look like death, kitten. Drink up, or Celestino is going to drag you during class.” Mila pokes the side of his head repeatedly until he takes the offerings. 

“There milk and sugar in this?” He waves his hand at the cup of coffee as he picks apart the danish.

“Twice as much as Lilia will ever let you have in an entire day,” she confirms before biting into her own croissant. 

“You rock, _ бaбa_.” Half of the cup is gone before class even starts. Between the caffeine, the light sugar pastry, and the redhead’s annoying self, Yuri manages to make it though stats without incurring the wrath of Professor Caldini. Chemistry is another matter, he literally doesn’t give a rat’s ass about it, so he sleeps that one away. He’s justified, he figures, because he has another yoga class at the tail end of his Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. 

By the time Yuri drags his dead weight back to his flat, it’s pitch dark outside even though it’s not even six in the evening yet. Between his fatigue and the lack of daylight, his sleep cycles are all types of messed up. When he unlocks the door, the smell of jasmine hits him full force. He’s not at all surprised to see Katsudon and the Old Man set up at the kitchen table, huddled over some papers. Probably their respective administrative work.

Viktor lights up the moment he lays eyes on Yuri. “Perfect timing, Yurio! Yuuri and I were working on your composition for the combined piece. Put down your bags, let me show you!”

“That’s not my name, Old Man, how many times do I have to tell you that?!” His first instinct is to lob whatever is in his hand at Viktor’s stupid heart-shaped smile, but since that happens to be his phone, he tamps down hard on said instinct. Instead, he kicks the platinum blonde’s chair as he passes on the way to his room. It makes his leg ache more, but the disgruntled ‘oof’ is so worth it.

“Let him settle in, Vitya, before we start. Yuri, go and rest for a few minutes. Eat something, if you want.” Katsudon fiddles with the video he has on his phone before consulting his papers again, not even sparing either of them a glance. Yuri huffs and retreats into his room, flopping down on his bed and pulling up his texts with Otabek. He should be in his loft for another hour before he heads off to busk.

> Help, I’m dying
> 
> Viktor is not going to cause your death, Yura.
> 
> Says you
> 
> You don’t have to deal with his insane choreography
> 
> Actually, you’re right
> 
> Katsudon and his never-ending stamina are going to kill me first
> 
> You do know you can ask them for a break, right? They wouldn’t ever make you do more than you’re able to. They aren't cruel, as certain of that as you are.

Yuri frowns. He knows that, they’re more inclined to baby him at times. But he can’t afford to not push. Especially not with this hellish piece. That means no breaks.

> I guess.
> 
> Try to end a bit early tonight, Yura. You need to rest as much as you need to practice. You'll be pissed if you work yourself to exhaustion and can't actually perform in the competition.

Fucking Beka being Beka.

> Fine, you win :P 
> 
> Thank you, Yura. I’ll talk to you later. <3
> 
> <3

_ “Yurio! Come on out!” _

“Happy to pissed in a moment,” Yuri grumbles as he puts his phone on it’s charger, “I’m going to end him.”

Yuri and Viktor end up spending the next two - and - a - half hours trying to transition from ballet into hip hop without some disaster happening while Katsudon cooks dinner. And as per usual, Yuri’s form falls to pieces once he’s out of his comfortable ballet zone. And as per usual, Viktor proceeds to be completely useless in teaching him anything. And as per usual, Katsudon just tells them to behave while juggling five different dishes at once. The end result is Yuri in a steaming rage at the minimal progress he’s made, and Viktor pulling a Viktor by rambling on about how he knows a few costume designers who are _ ‘very good, Yurio, I’m sure we can find you something for your performances’_. 

Yuri feels his blood turn to slush in his veins as he remembers that he needs to have his costumes created soon. So he ignores Katudon’s call about dinner and hides in the shower until he hears Viktor leave. As soon as the front door closes and he’s absolutely sure the other Russian is gone, he’s out of the shower and changed in record time. He _ just _ misses Katsudon on the way to his room, locking the door under the pretense of homework. Well, it started as a pretense, but he actually has a few assignments to get done, and he’ll happily use it as an excuse to ignore his roommate. He’s had enough social interactions for today.

Not that freaking Katsuon can take a hint, if the knock on his door is any indication.

“Yuri, I left your dinner in the fridge. Warm it up if you plan on staying up late.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he calls. He can eat later. After his stats homework and chem paper are done. He can probably fit another hour of practice in as well, after Katsudon is asleep. He can use his headphones instead of the sound system. 

* * *

Otabek leans against the wall just inside Julliard's main entrance, watching the students flow past him. He’s waiting for Yuri. 

This semester, the blonde’s Thursdays end really early. Like, two in the afternoon early. And Otabek changed shifts with another DJ as soon as he found out, so now he’s free the entire afternoon, with the occasional busking at Times Square. Today is thankfully not one of those days, what with it being JJ and Isabella’s anniversary and an emergency interpreting job at a hospital for Rita. Yuri, of course, takes the opportunity to stay over as much as possible. Not that Otabek minds even the slightest bit. So as soon as his radio gig was over, he grabbed a late lunch and made his way over to pick Yuri up. He glances outside at the winter-held city. He can’t wait until it’s warm enough to ride his bike again. The constant delays on the metro due to the weather are starting to grate on his nerves. 

His lack of attention means that he’s not at all prepared for Yuri slamming into him. A fond huff slips out as Otabek catches him and buries his nose in the younger boy’s hair. “Hey Yura.”

“Hi Beka. Can we go home now? M’tired.” Yuri buries his face deeper into the neck of Otabek’s sweater, making no move towards the bus. Otabek indulges them both for a minute or so, silently basking in the knowledge that Yuri is starting to call his modest loft ‘home’, before poking Yuri in the side. 

“Sure, but that means we actually have to move.”

The half-hearted glare he receives is more endearing than anything, so Otabek just kisses Yuri’s brow before steering them to the bus. He doesn’t even care that he’s basically carrying all of Yuri’s weight. He pays both of their fares and lets Yuri sit in the last available seat while he stands next to him. His boyfriend looks dead tired, and Otabek wants to turn the world on its ear to fix it.

Yuri gets a half hour nap on the bus, and then promptly collapses onto the bed for another one. Before he can drift off again, Otabek prods him in the side once more. “Do you want some lunch, Yura?”

He gets a sleepy head shake and a muffled ‘no’ as an answer, so Otabek just grabs his laptop and sets himself up on the bed next to Yuri. He has a new commission for a figure skater, a shortened edit of an animated movie soundtrack, and he manages to get a good way through it in the hour or so that Yuri is dead to the world. He falls headlong into his work zone, completely tuning everything else out while he fiddles with the music file. 

What brings him back is Yuri’s head shifting onto his thigh as the blonde watches him move clips around on his sequencer. He makes no move to get up and isn’t disturbing Otabek, so the older man just lets him stay there, absently threading his fingers through gold while he listens to the new cut. They don’t really move after that, and Otabek takes his sweet time enjoying having Yuri so close while he’s doing something so mundane. In another half hour he’s pretty content with the new sample, and he sends it off to his client to see if they want anything changed. As soon as his email is sent, though, Yuri kidnaps his laptop and pulls up Netflix. 

“So you’re finally going to listen to me and take a break from dancing?” Otabek teases as he wraps himself around Yuri. Said blonde sticks his elbow between Otabek’s ribs good-naturedly. 

“Just for today, I guess,” he replies. “There’s a new anime show that just came out with the English dub, and we’re going to binge it.” He twists around and steals a quick kiss before playing the first episode. Not fast enough, though, because Otabek catches the small grimace trickling across Yuri’s face.

“What happened, Yura?” He pulls back enough to start checking the blonde over. There are no bruises or anything as far as he can tell, but if Yuri’s high pain tolerance is still letting him feel whatever is hurting him, then it still might be something bad.

Yuri rolls his eyes at Otabek’s fussing. “Nothing happened, dummy. I just didn’t stretch enough this morning, and I’m feeling it now. No one hit me, I didn’t fall or anything. I probably just need a massage.”

Otabek clicks his tongue. “I would have thought you would know better, Mister Ballet Prodigy. Here, I’ll make you some food and then give you that massage while you watch.” He moves maybe two inches before Yuri is on him with the biggest set of pleading puppy eyes he’s ever seen.

“Massage _ now_, Beka. I’m not even hungry. Please?”

Well, it’s official, Otabek will never be able to say no to this boy. Especially if he turns on that look. “Oh, alright. Come here.” He presses another kiss to Yuri’s forehead. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Yuri shifts from innocent to smug in an instant. “Why yes, yes I am.” He flops back down onto the pillows and rewinds the episode a bit while Otabek starts his massage. By the time he’s worked all of the knots out of Yuri’s back, they’re three episodes in, Otabek is more than a bit invested in the protagonists (and maybe a bit of the music as well, so sue him), and Yuri looks blissed out. 

Otabek watches as Yuri shifts and stretches, listening to the faint pops of the younger’s spine. He tugs Otabek around as he settles again, so that he’s curled up into the older man’s side and the laptop is placed next to him on the bed. They let themselves get absorbed in the show, and eventually end up drifting off to sleep somewhere in the middle of the second season.

* * *

They’re both up early as hell Friday morning, but Otabek still somehow manages to have breakfast made by the time Yuri walks out of the bathroom already dressed in his ballet uniform. Normally, french toast, fresh-cut fruit, and bacon would appeal to him, but Yuri’s just not feeling it today. He got a text from Katsudon some time last night that he had to meet with Roger again today, and the reminder of hours of stupid African training soured his morning. 

Still, seeing Otabek fiddling around in the kitchen in just his jeans and a wife beater is a welcome sight any day, so Yuri indulges himself and wraps his arms around his boyfriend from behind. “Morning, Beka.”

He hears the stove turn off before Otabek turns in his arms. “Morning, Yura.” He feels a quick tap on his head, and he looks up to see a honeyed strawberry dangling in front of him.

He’s still not in the mood for sugar, so he just dodges it to kiss Beka instead. “I’m going to head out a bit early. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

He catches the frown on Otabek’s face. “You skipped at the very least dinner yesterday, Yura. Please eat something before you leave?” 

Well fuck, if that isn’t a huge bout of persuasion, Yuri doesn’t know what is. He caves. “I’ll pack some and take it with me, how about that? I can eat on the bus.” His appetite might come around by then, and if not, he can just eat it between his other classes. 

Otabek’s arms tighten around him again briefly before letting him go. “That works. And make sure you have some lunch too.” He reaches for some Tupperware and starts piling some of the breakfast spread into it. “Fridays tend to sap your energy.”

Yuri tamps down on the annoyance that springs up out of nowhere. _ Beka just wants to help_, he reminds himself. And the brunette is right, Fridays have an extra seminar class for him after yoga, late at night. It’s his longest day, and it means that he can’t go busking or clubbing with the others, and it ticks him off something fierce. But he needs the stupid class as a gen ed, so he’s shit out of luck. And he has another session with Roger shoved in between his classes. Oh, joy.

“I will, Beka,” he replies. Taking the wrapped Tupperware and shoving it into his duffel, Yuri presses a quick kiss and a ‘talk to you later’ to his boyfriend's lips and bolts out of the door. If he runs, he can catch the early bus and start stretching his body out before Lilia’s class. 

Apparently, though, he didn’t get enough rest yesterday in spite of his two impromptu naps, because as soon as he’s seated on the bus he slides into a semi-conscious state all the way to school. He’s barely aware of the bus stops that he passes, only glancing out of the window every couple of minutes to mark his place on the route. He’s been on it so many times, though, that he can almost time it to the minute.

And he estimates correctly, because he hops off of the bus with exactly a half hour to stretch before class. He might start doing this every day, leaving a bit earlier in his practice clothes and just jumping into his stretches to save some time. Yuri ditches his duffel and book bag in his locker before starting his regular _ barre _ routine. 

It’s hours later, when Yuri’s reaching for one of his sweaters in his duffel, that he realizes he still hasn’t touched his breakfast.

The blonde glances at the clock on his phone. He actually hasn’t touched anything in his duffel since he left Otabek’s place this morning. He stayed after Lilia’s extra practice again, got dragged to stats, tried to stay focused in chemistry, and just got to Katsudon’s practice room for his combined piece. It’s four in the afternoon, and they have until six-thirty before his seminar. 

Yuri zips his duffel closed without touching the Tupperware. He can go a few more hours. He’ll pop by one of the cafeterias and use the microwave to heat it up, and then eat on the way home. He’s feeling fine, anyways.

* * *

Otabek tries his best not to worry as he glances at his phone, looking for his notification light through the strobe lights of the club. Not having Yuri around to chill him out like normal is something he’s just going to have to get used to this semester, though. Fridays are hell for the blonde, ending close to eight in the evening, when he’s already spinning up in the booth. And by that point, Yuri’s normally so tired that he just heads back to his flat and crashes. 

Still, the Russian is normally good at keeping in contact, even with his most hectic days. 

As soon as there’s a break that he can step away, Otabek picks up his cell and pulls up their conversation.

> Let me know how breakfast is. I tried a new recipe with the toast.

> Remember to eat lunch, Yura.

> How’s the extra practice with Roger?

Nothing. 

Otabek is about to text a simple _ ‘good night’ _ when a string of texts from his boyfriend flood the chat.

> I’m so fucking tired Beka
> 
> Today was straight out of hell, for real
> 
> Had literally no time outside of class to myself
> 
> Extra practice sucked ass as fucking usual
> 
> Please tell me you had a better day
> 
> At least one of us has to
> 
> Fuck, if I had the energy, I’d be over with you
> 
> Tomorrow’s Saturday, anyway

Well, that explained the lack of response, at least. 

Otabek sets his phone down and frowns at his mix table. He has a sneaking suspicion that Yuri didn’t eat today, if it was as packed as the blonde said it was. That would make it - Otabek drums his fingers on the table as he counts back in time - damn near thirty hours since he’s had a substantial meal. At least eight of which were non-stop physical activity. 

_ Shit_. That was in no way, shape, or form healthy.

Cuing up the next track, he sends a text to Katsuki. Yuri’s flatmate is the best option to making sure his boyfriend eats something tonight, as well as over the weekend. If Yuri pops over to his place, then he can do it himself, but someone needs to monitor in the hours between.

He gets an enthusiastic _ ‘Of course! Thank you for worrying about him!’ _ and flips back to his boyfriend’s chat.

> I wish you could be here. I always miss you when you’re not around. Mine wasn’t much better, sorry. Side effect of you being gone.

He hesitates before sending the next one.

> Yuri, please eat something. And rest. You need it, or you're going to burn out.

The next set of texts have Otabek cycling through a host of emotions in time with the swinging lights. 

> I know damnit, I will
> 
> I’m not a fucking kid
> 
> Shit
> 
> Sorry
> 
> I have a headache and everything hurts and I really fucking miss you

Hell. Worried to wounded to angry to more worry in the time it normally takes him to change tracks. It’s a herculean task to focus on the music for the two minutes he needs to, but he manages just before the current track ends. And then he’s right back at his phone.

> I miss you too. All the time. I know you aren’t a kid, Yura. I just worry. You do a lot, and I’m afraid you’ll end up hurt.
> 
> I know
> 
> I’m sorry
> 
> I’ll eat
> 
> And rest

Fuck, Otabek would do anything to sweep his boyfriend up in a hug. It would do the both of them a world of good. But at least there's a game plan in place, and things will be better now. 

The thought of letting Yuri fall asleep with him thinking that Otabek is mad at him or something is absolutely rancid in his mouth, so sending the last text is easy as breathing for him.

> Thank you, Yura. I love you.
> 
> I love you too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll in the comments keep trying to pull out spoilers but I ain't having it! :P
> 
> Real talk though, I cannot wait for these next couple chapters. I love reading and responding to your comments, they really make me super happy. Ya'll are amazing.


	23. Gasoline, Hasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And everything comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I think there's a flaw in my code_   
_These voices won't leave me alone_   
_Well my heart is gold and my hands are cold_   


Otabek glances past the sliced fruit on the table at his boyfriend, still curled up in his bed. Yuri’s alarm has been silenced four times. If he doesn’t get up now, then he’s going to be late to the studio.

Closing the full Tupperware’s lid and sliding Yuri’s lunch into his duffle, he pads over and gently shakes the blonde awake. “Time to get up, Yura. You’ll miss your bus.”

Bleary green eyes ringed in dark shadows squint up at him. Yuri flails around for his phone, and Otabek helpfully hands it to him, letting the contentment wash over him at the sight. The bright display makes Yuri squint even more, but the light assault and the knowledge of the time is enough to make him drag himself out of the bed. Otabek just hugs him tightly and drops a kiss on messy hair.

“Breakfast is on the table, and I packed you a light lunch. I’ll text you after my shift.” He feels more than sees Yuri nod against his collar bone, the two of them frozen for a minute more before the younger marshals the energy to get ready. Otabek himself needs to leave now too - he needs to get down to Tribeca for the morning shift at the radio station. He watches his boyfriend stumble around the bookcase before following, snagging his leather jacket and scarf as he passes his workstation.

Otabek has been up for over an hour already, which is why he’s dressed and has food made. Yuri, though, seems to be sleeping later and later each day, to the point where Otabek just silences his alarms as soon as they go off to give his boyfriend a few extra minutes. The blonde stays over as often as he can, so at least Otabek knows he’s eating in the morning. But now he’s worried about the obvious signs of fatigue that dog Yuri. The deep bags under the eyes, the struggle it is for him to wake up in the mornings, the constant shakes that have nothing to do with the temperature, the constant need for massages. Casting one last look over his shoulder at the door grants him a glimpse of an exhausted Yuri ploding into the bathroom to wash up. 

Well, at least he’s up and moving. No chance of Yuri falling back asleep now, no matter how much he needs it. Once Yuri gets out of the bed, he’s not sleeping until he gets back into it. And the younger man is way too dedicated to his business to spend the day sleeping when he can spend it improving himself.

Otabek palms his set of keys off of the holder, knowing that Yuri will use his own set to lock up behind himself when he leaves. He shoves them into his bag and slings it over his head as he glances at his own phone as he heads out. His bus comes in seven minutes, provided the metro decides to cooperate today. But the weather report predicted clear skies and a temperature high in the fifties. So there shouldn’t be any delays. With any luck, the weather will keep up this positive trend enough for all of the leftover snow to melt away. An early spring would be great, because then he could get back to riding.

Frowning at himself, Otabek realizes that he’s picked up one of Yuri’s coping habits - distracting by thinking of anything and everything unimportant, so there isn’t room or time for panic and breakdowns.

Not that it lasts for very long. Like clockwork, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. _ Əĸe_. Of course. Every other Wednesday, always at six in the morning for him, five in the evening for them. Always as he’s walking to his bus.

He pulls out his phone and answers the call without so much as looking at the screen. “Good evening, _ Əĸe_. How are _ Aнa _ and the girls?”

Five minutes and twelve seconds is as long as he can stand to be on the phone. The sense of panic he was avoiding earlier is back with a vengeance and blurring his surroundings even more than the lights of Manhattan. 

The side of his index finger is thick with callouses. He’s been breaking the skin a lot lately. He’s stashed Band-Aids in all of his bags on the chance it happens when he’s not at home. It would be a lot more of a headache to try and get blood out of his equipment.

The bus is way too small and cramped, and the pain in his hand is all that’s keeping him grounded as he heads to work. 

_ Not enough. It’s still not enough. _

Hell, he knows why Yuri damn near gave himself a complex back in November now. The two of them are riding a huge wave of chance and praying they didn’t wipe out. Both of them have so much riding on this. Yuri getting to be one step closer to his mother, him one step closer to saving his. Otabek doesn’t even know what they would do if their luck ran out and they lost … they have no contingency plans, no backups. If this fell through, then they’re back to business as usual. Only _ ‘business as usual’ _ isn’t sustainable. 

Well, Yuri would always have another chance, but his mother -

Otabek growls low in his throat and digs his thumb nail in harder as he tamps down hard on that thought, shoving it into a tiny ass box, duct taping it shut and Master Locking it away as far into the recesses of his mind as he could. He would rather cut off his own two hands than even begin to consider resenting Yuri. He was the one who heard about this one-in-a-million chance and found a way to make it work. Sure, he was in it for the exposure, but all of the physical rewards would go to Otabek. Exposure, Yuri would have gotten either way for just showing up. Hell, he’d have gotten exposure one way or another, because he’s just that good. But he wanted to _ win_, badly, with a drive and passion that bordered on obsession. If the constant lethargy and scant meals the blonde took were any indication, he was working overtime and a half to get the outcome he wanted. Yuri wanted to win to help Otabek. And he’d be damned if he started hating his boyfriend who went to all of these lengths beck when the blonde was just his friend. Besides, Otabek has his hands full enough worrying about Yuri’s health. He’s not too sure he can juggle that and indignation at the same time.

All of that aside, none of it solves the immediate complication that just popped up. 

Shit, what was he going to do?

So caught up in his own thoughts, Otabek actually missed his stop. With a curse, he signals for a stop and jumps off of the bus as soon as it pulls to the curb.

“Well, it’s only two blocks,” he sighs as he starts to walk back towards the studio’s building. Maybe he’ll talk to his manager.

* * *

Another dizzy spell slams into Yuri like a freight train, and he has to close his eyes and breath through it. The floor takes a while to stop tilting under his feet. 

Fucking hell, he is _ exhausted_. 

Ignoring Katusdon’s stare, he rights himself and wrestles his limbs into position for the vamp of the combined piece again. Tremors are starting to slither their way up and down his arms, and he ignores it. Three more run throughs of this section, and then he can go collapse in a corner somewhere. But not until he’s done with practice, damnit.

Roger and Viktor are saying something, and Yuri really, _ really _ tries to hear what they’re saying, because it’s important that he masters this choreography. He has to. But no matter how hard he focuses on their words, it’s nothing but static.

Whatever, he’ll mark it behind Roger.

And he does just mark it, because lifting into the full extensions make pain ricochet up his spine and dark spots do _ pirouettes _ in the corners of his vision. 

Except from one moment to the next he goes from preparing for a _ sissone _ to face down on the hardwood floor.

Fucking _ ow _.

Three sets of feet are shuffling around him and three voices are still fuzzy mumblings, and after shaking off more stars he bats away their hands. “I’m fine, jeez. Back up, you lot.”

It’s Viktor that catches his hand and hauls him up into a sitting position. The silver hair that pops into his vision brings a bright-as-hell light, and the asshole is spearing the damn thing into the back of his brain. “Damnit, Old Man, cut that out!”

Good news is the knock must have reset something, because he’s hearing their voices better. Viktor is saying something like “well that’s two ways to confirm that he doesn’t have a concussion.”

Katsudon next. “Yuri, I’m taking you to the infirmary. Can you stand?”

Rolling his eyes will probably induce a migraine or something, so he just closes them and breathes a long, agitated sigh. “I’m fine, Katsudon. Give me five and we can go again.”

And to finish the trifecta, Roger joins in. “Not for nothing, Yuri, but if you pass out like that it normally means you were done about three days ago.” 

“Infirmary or home, Yuri, but you aren’t doing any more work. Not today or tomorrow. I’ll clear it with Lilia and Yakov.” The other Yuuri’s voice only ever got that hard when he was so certain about something that he was willing to physically fight anyone. Which means that Yuri is done, whether he likes it or not. And if one of them blabs to Yakov, or worse _ Lilia_, there won’t be a single place on campus that he can go to practice on his own.

God fucking damnit.

“Whatever,” he mutters as he heaves himself off the ground. For a second he’s afraid his knee will give out again, but the moment passes and he hauls ass to the locker room. Not even bothering to change, he pulls his hoodie and sweatpants on over his practice clothes and drapes his coat over his shoulder. His duffel and book bag are a bigger problem, because he can barely lift the damn things, and it takes an entire deadlift routine to get them off of the ground. The world does another whirlpool thing, and with the added weight he actually stumbles into a wall. He presses his head to the cool tile and waits the spell out before venturing out of the locker room.

Katsudon is waiting outside of the locker room with his car keys in hand. “Let’s go.”

“Hell no.”

“Tough. Me or Viktor, Yuri.”

And just like that, all of his fight makes a quick evacuation, making his anger deflate like a popped balloon. “Fine. Just drop me off at Beka’s place.”

One of Katsudon’s eyebrows rise over the rim of his glasses - whether it’s because he’s surprised at Yuri’s easy acquiescence, or that he doesn’t quite understand the change in destinations, the blonde doesn’t know or care. “Are you going to stay there?”

A sigh. “Yeah. I’ll even leave my location on, okay?” He’s just too tired. He’ll rant and rave later, when he has the energy. Right now, he just wants to curl up and sleep for a week. And maybe get another massage on his right calf. the thing’s been on the spaz for the better part of this week and it’s getting old.

“Okay.” And Katsudon just walks towards the garage. Yuri follows, and just passes out again in the passenger seat for however long it takes them to drive over to Greenwich. Everything starts going fuzzy again when the other Yuuri double parks in front of Otabek’s building and helps him get his bags upstairs. His last moment of clarity is used to turn on his location sharing so his flatmate won’t lose his shit and texting his boyfriend that he was crashing at his place again. Anything past that is washed in grey fog. 

The relief of laying down in sheets that still smell like Beka is the last thing he remembers.

* * *

Otabek gets back to his loft at close to eleven at night, and the first thing he does is scan the place for his boyfriend. 

Yuri is sprawled out on his bed, still in his practice clothes and an oversized hoodie and flicking through his phone dispassionately. His duffel and book back are tossed next to the couch, and Otabek is willing to guess that Yuri hasn’t moved since he got there at around four. 

Locking the door and dropping his stuff off at his work table takes all of three minutes, and then he’s gathering his boyfriend up in his arms and gently cradling the blonde. Christ, he feels way too thin.

“What happened today, Yura? You don’t end early on Wednesdays.”

The spine under his hands tenses. “Stupid Katsudon and the Old Man ganged up on me and made me quit early today and cleared tomorrow. Those dumbasses-”

Okay, so not the time to go off on a rant. “Why, Yura?” If something happened, Otabek will undoubtedly fly right off the handle.

“Because they’re extra as hell for no reason! I fell _ once_, it wasn’t a big deal, I didn't even get a concussion!” Yuri squirms out of his hold and throws himself back on the mattress with his arms crossed. “I can handle myself just fine, and I need to finish practice.”

Otabek’s thumb nail is in his index finger again. “What are you doing, Yuri? You’re going to run yourself into the ground! If you had gotten a concussion, you’d have been down for the rest of the week, not just a day and a half. God forbid you broke something, and everything we’ve done will be for nothing.” Cold horror and steaming anger are roiling under his skin, and it makes him want to scratch until the feeling goes away. 

Yuri’s eyes are wide as they turn on him. “What the actual fuck, Beka? You know as well as I do that we can’t afford to not pull this shit off! And you of all people know how much trouble I'm having with this! I _ need _ to practice. Or else we aren’t winning anything! I’m in the studio every spare second I have, and I’m still not good enough!”

Something dawns on Otabek. _ ‘Every spare second-’ _ “You haven’t been eating at school, have you.” Not a question. "You've been skipping lunch in order to practice, haven't you." He _ knew _ Yuri was too thin. And the silence is more than enough of an answer, anyway. “Damnit, Yuri, you promised me that you would eat! It’s bad enough that you aren’t getting enough rest.” The reality that Yuri could end up in a hospital too, just like his mother, starts to pick away at Otabek’s sanity. If something happens to Yuri too, he won’t be able to handle it. “Honestly, thank God for your flatmate,” he murmurs to himself, “because you need to chill out for a day or two. At least one of you has a good head on your shoulders.”

Furious green eyes whirl on him. “I don’t want to hear shit from you. You did the same shit, taking on _ two whole jobs _ in the span of a _ month_, you ass. And in case you don’t remember, I was the last to know! I had to hear it secondhand from Aman!”

_ Fuck_. Otabek remembers the talk he had with his manager over at the radio station early this morning and runs his free hand through his hair, pulling on the longer strands.

Yuri narrows his glare. “What the fuck did you do?” he hisses when Otabek takes too long to respond. “Wait, let me guess. You went and asked for more shifts, didn’t you? You hypocritical jerk.”

Otabek’s patience snaps like a rubber band. He’s stressed and worried about two of the most important people in his life and absolutely _ none _ of this is helping. “Sorry, but I’m actually trying to do something to help my _ sick mother_, if you’ll remember. Hospital visits are expensive over at home, and my father needs me to pick up the tab. So excuse me for trying to keep you out of one over here.”

Yuri throws up his hands in exasperation. “And when was I ever going to hear about this development? In a year, from one of your sisters?” Yuri scrubs at his eyes, and just like that Otabek feels like the world’s biggest dick. “I fucking told you I was going to help you. Everything I’ve been doing was for you and your mother as much as it was for me. Thought you would trust me enough to talk to me about shit, but I guess not.” And then he’s up and off of the bed like a bolt of lightning, grabbing his bag and duffel and dragging them across the floor towards the door.

Sweet Christ, he’s an ass. “Yuri-”

“Shut the fuck up, Otabek, and leave me alone.”

And then Otabek is the only one left in his loft. The soft _ drip _ of his blood on the floor is the only thing he hears.

* * *

Yuri makes it two blocks before his anger-fueled energy runs out and he needs to stop. In his mad dash out the door, he completely forgot to put on shoes or his coat, and he’s paying for it dearly now. Even though his dance clothes are layered under his sweats, it’s not enough to completely fight off the winter night chill. And with the cold sapping his energy, his bags gain an extra pound with every step.

At least he doesn’t have to wipe at his face anymore. 

Fumbling for his phone, he pulls up Katsudon’s contact and … just stares at it. 

He didn’t really just fight with his boyfriend, did he? Is Otabek even his boyfriend anymore?

Jesus, he knows better than anyone how important Otabek’s mother is to him. It’s not like Otabek is working and worrying himself to death for shits and giggles. And he’s normally not so quick to blow up. That’s normally Yuri’s job, and Otabek is supposed to be the calm one. Something must have happened recently, maybe even today, since he wasn’t like this yesterday. Something big enough to make him want to pick up even more work and set him on edge.

And how does he respond? By yelling at his best friend-slash-boyfriend and pushing all of his buttons.

What the _ ever loving fuck _ is wrong with him?

Yuri jumps when his phone buzzes in his hand.

Katsudon.

He answers the call and tries to reign in any signs of distress in his voice. “Yeah?”

_ “Why did you leave Otabek’s place?” _

Oh, right, he has location sharing on. Yuri feels like he aged a year with each word. “Can you come get me?”

_ “... Yeah. Sit tight, I’ll be there in twenty.” _

“Okay.” 

Goddamnit.

“Thanks, Yuuri.”

* * *

Yuuri Katsuki is a simple man. He likes to dance, he loves his boyfriend Viktor, and he holds Yuri in high regard. And by that proxy, he holds Yuri’s boyfriend Otabek in high regard as well.

So if something or someone messes with any of those things, he gets … highly invested in any effort to put things to rights.

And he’s also not an idiot, thank you very much. 

He calls Otabek as soon as he’s off of the phone with Yuri. The other man picks up after the second ring, sounding like he’s flying apart at the seams, and Yuuri is just the tiniest bit satisfied that he understands just how bad he fucked up.

_ “Is Yuri with-” _

“Be quiet and listen to me, Altin.” He’s grabbing his keys and shoving his feet into his trainers as he talks in a hard clip. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but you two are going to work your crap out tomorrow. And if you don’t, I will happily ignore the fact that Yuri is in love with you and end you myself. We clear?”

Yuuri listens to a stammer of agreement. “Good. You stay in your loft and figure yourself out before you come see him here tomorrow. Not a moment before.”

_ “I will. Christ, please just take care of him. He needs to eat and sleep, for real. He’s lost weight and is constantly tired.” _

Well, that’s news to him. Yuri has been pretty much the same surly tabby cat that moved in a year and a half ago. 

But … Yuri always wears really baggy clothes over his practice gear. And he’s been spending more time at Otabeks. And Yuuri can’t remember the last time the blonde had a full dinner in his flat.

Damn brat fooled them good.

“I will. Thank you for letting me know.” Yuuri takes a breath and starts his car. “I’m mad at the both of you for fighting, but believe me when I say that I want the two of you to make up. You’re the best thing that I think has ever happened to him, and I don’t want to see what happens if he loses you.”

_ “I don’t want to lose him.” _ And he sounds like it too, Yuuri notes. Like his entire world would break if that happened. So he decides to cut the kid some slack.

“Get your head on straight and come over tomorrow. You two will work it out then. Take tonight to calm down.” 

_ “I will. And … I’ll fix this. I promise.” _

“Okay.” Yuuri lets the small smile slip through. “Good night. And good luck tomorrow.”

_ “Thank you. Good night.” _

Yuuri tosses his cell into the passenger seat and pulls off to pick up Yuri. And fervently hopes that his two favorite idiots work this mess out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late chapter! I had a busy weekend involving job hunting, a bunch of freelance jobs cropping up, administrative work for my dance team's new semester, and I lost track of time. 
> 
> Not that I'm too happy to be posting this chapter, because MY BABIESSSS ARE HURTINGGGG!!!! :'(((
> 
> This was another chapter that caused me pain as I wrote it. I hate fights in general, and I just want to hug my boys. Please don't hate me, I promise things will get better soon! I really can't leave them like this for long.


	24. Fall For You, Secondhand Serenade/The Reason, Hoobastank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These idiots finally stop being idiots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _This is not what I intended_   
_I always swore to you I'd never fall apart_   
_You always thought that I was stronger_   
_I may have failed, but I have loved you from the start_   


“Breakfast is ready, Yuri.”

Said blonde doesn’t acknowledge his flatmate standing in the doorway, despite having been awake long enough to see sunbeams streaking across his floor. He’s still tired, he and Katsudon having walked into their flat at close to midnight, and a part of him is frozen despite being bundled up in his sheets. 

Yuri wishes that time would just stop for a bit. It would give him the chance to cope a bit better. Or to sort through the mess his life became. 

Katsudon drags the covers away from his face. “You and I are eating breakfast, and then you and Otabek are going to talk and work this out.” He’s standing over Yuri’s bed with his arms crossed and a no-nonsense look behind those blue glasses.

Yuri just pushes his face into the pillows. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tough. You’re eating with me. Now get up.” The Japanese man latches on to Yuri’s arm and yanks him out of the bed, completely ignoring the younger Russian’s spluttering. Yuri doesn’t even have the strength to get himself free, so he’s manhandled into a chair at the kitchen table despite his protests. A loaded omelette and a cup of jasmine tea are placed in front of him in the blink of an eye.

“I told you, I’m not hungry,” Yuri huffs, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. He hasn’t been hungry in weeks. And he’s been too busy to really pay attention to the meals he takes.

“Because your body is suppressing it,” Katsudon says from the stove where he’s cooking another omelette. “That’s what happens when you do more physical activity than, say, a jog.” He casts a wry glance over his shoulder. “And Lilia’s classes most definitely count as more exercise than a jog. Not to mention that you’re a stubborn ass and push yourself way too hard.”

“Okay, so?” Yuri still doesn’t feel like eating. “I’m still fine.” Well, he was until yesterday during practice, but he feels fine now. The dizziness is totally ignorable compared to back in the studio. And the tremors are better, too.

“Now, maybe. And I’m hesitant to call the state you’re in ‘fine’. By the date of the competition? You’ll probably drop an extra ten or fifteen pounds and be so malnourished you’ll end up in the hospital.” Katsudon sets his plate down and takes a seat across from Yuri, pointing his fork at the blonde. “I know you don’t feel like it, but eat. Make time for it. It’s the only way you’ll be ready for the competition.” And with that, Katsudon tucks into his breakfast.

The word  _ ‘malnourished’ _ shoots Yuri back in time, and he sees his mother struggling to finish a small plate of rice, steamed vegetables, and chicken. He sees her in her hospital bed, gaunt and pale as the doctors talk to  _ Dedushka _ out in the hall. And then his mind puts him in her place, his arm hooked up to an IV line and his vitals reading out on the monitor next to the bed. The block of ice in his gut triples in size.

His mother had had an eating disorder, made worse by his asshole father. But Yuri’s sure that he doesn’t have one. He doesn’t think he’s fat or something, and he doesn’t try to throw up his meals as soon as no one is looking. He’s not on some stupid fad diet, either. He just … forgets to eat sometimes. And isn’t hungry the rest of the time. 

But the end result would still be the same, wouldn’t it?

Shit, no wonder everyone was worried. 

Yuri stares at his plate. For a long time. And then longer still. And then an extra minute more before he makes himself pick up a fork and pull off a piece of the omelette. It has no flavor to it, more because he just can’t taste it than how Katsudon made it. He forces himself to take another bite. And another. And then takes a sip of the tea.

Twenty minutes later, both Yuri’s plate and mug are empty and he feels ready to pass out. 

Katsudon is busy texting someone on his phone with one hand while the other gathers their dishes and drops them in the sink. “Go ahead and take a nap. You need to catch up on all of the late nights you pulled over here.”

God, a nap would be perfect. Yuri mumbles some version of an ‘okay’ and drifts back to his room, collapsing on the bed immediately. The sheets are still slightly warm, and he burrows under them to block out the sunlight pouring in. In the relative darkness, though, the images of his mother and him in the hospital resurface and make him shiver. He blocks them as best he can by plastering as many images of performance costumes as he can remember. He drifts off to sleep thinking of his mother’s silvery Odette costume and how it flowed like water.

* * *

> Good morning, Otabek. If you still plan on coming over, now would be a good time. Do you need a pickup?

Otabek reads the text that comes in at mid-morning over at least three more times. He can’t tell if Yuuri Katsuki is mad or not from the tone of this text, because the Japanese man is unerringly polite. He didn’t sound mad at the end of the call last night, but things could have changed between then and now.

He wants to ask about Yuri. Badly.

Does he even have that right anymore?

Well, the only way to find that out is to fix this mess, isn’t it?

> Good morning. I’ll be there in half an hour. No need for a pickup, thanks.
> 
> Alright. See you then.

All but bolting off of his couch, Otabek is ready to leave in the span of ten minutes, confirming with his manager at the radio station that he won’t be coming in today, and then clearing his evening with his band and the club as well. And then he sets his phone on airplane mode. He’s not taking any chances with distractions today.

The bus ride and walk to Yuri’s flat is a grand total of twenty-six minutes, and Otabek marks the time by replaying last night’s fight over and over in his head, and kicking himself in the ass for snapping at Yuri. He may have been worried, and rightly so, but that’s still no excuse to yell at anyone, much less someone he cares about. 

Otabek sends Yuuri a text as soon as he steps up the small flight of stairs, and the Japanese man opens the door a second later.

“He’s sleeping right now. Feel free to hang around until he wakes up,” he says as he lets Otabek into the flat. He’s been in here a few times, enough that he knows the layout well enough. Barely sparing a glance around, the Kazakh heads straight to his best friend’s room and glances in, hoping to avoid disturbing the younger man.

Yep, Yuri’s fast asleep and most likely not going to come around any time soon. It’s a no-brainer for Otabek to pull out the desk chair and drop into it, just watching Yuri’s face for a while. The dark circles are fading a bit, thankfully. They have to find some way to keep Yuri from burning out. 

Otabek glances at his own hand. There’s still a Band-Aid wrapped around his index finger, and he’s cut all of his nails down to the nail bed. 

Yuri isn’t the only one who needs to stop the breakneck pace they’re running at. His best friend was right about that.

He’s been doing the same thing he yelled at Yuri for. And if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black much, Otabek doesn’t know what is. And they both need to be on top of their game if they want any hope of winning the competition in May. 

Otabek pulls out his phone and sends another text to his manager. They had been talking about Otabek picking up a few more hours for a while now, and his father calling yesterday morning with the news that pre-treatment for his mother’s surgery required a new medication had pushed him towards accepting. It was a good idea at the time. 

Once glance at Yuri makes it seem like a disaster waiting to happen, now. Otabek can’t help anyone if he’s always on the verge of collapsing. 

In the end, Otabek just texts his manager and tells him that he can’t take on any more hours, and then shuts down his phone to avoid taking it back. 

He sits on his hands to fight the temptation for the better part of two hours.

A mix of relief and anxiety fills him when Yuri starts to wake up around lunchtime. He waits patiently to be acknowledged, and watches as the younger man flips through grogginess to confusion to lucidity to confusion.

“What are you-”

“I’m sorry,” Otabek cuts him off. He needs to get this out before he loses his nerve or one of them gets angry. “I’m sorry that I didn’t talk to you about taking on more work or about how  _ Aнa _ is doing. And I’m so, so sorry for losing my temper last night. You didn’t deserve any of that.” The impulse to dig into his index finger is back, so he laces his fingers together tight and leans his elbows on his knees. “A lot happened yesterday, and I worry over you so damn much that I just lost it. I’m not trying to justify my awful behavior or anything, I just wanted you to know.”

Yuri sits up in his bed and picks at his comforter. “What happened yesterday?” he asks in a neutral voice.

Otabek breathes deep and forces himself to ease up on his fingers. “ _ Əĸe _ called right after I left. They just scheduled the surgery for early June.  _ Aнa _ needs some more medication before then, and that pushed me to talk to my manager at the radio station to pick up some more hours. I thought that the extra money would help cover medicine until we got the prize money. And then you ended up at my place after nearly giving yourself a concussion, and I noticed how thin you’ve been getting, and that you haven’t been eating or sleeping well lately, and-” Cutting his tirade off, he pulls at his hair as he forces himself to breath for a second. “The thought of both you and  _ Aнa _ in the hospital made me flip. I can’t lose either one of you. I love you too damn much, Yura.”

Oh, damnit, Yuri’s gone pale. “But  _ Aпай _ Kausaur is okay, right?”

“She’s fine, no worse than before.”

Yuri goes back to picking at his sheets. “I get it,” he finally says, “I get that you want to help. I do, too, Beka. And I probably made things worse, because you’re constantly worried about me. So I’m sorry about that. I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.” 

“I was really pissed that you keep picking up more work. You don’t have to do everything, you know. But I’ve been doing the same shit, I guess, and not really realizing it. Katsudon told me that I’ve been doing so much exercise that my body just forgets to tell me to eat. And I got so focused on getting everything perfect that I didn’t notice that I wasn’t eating or sleeping.” Yuri gets really quiet. “I get why  _ Maмa _ had a hard time finishing her meals. I had to fight myself to eat this morning, with freaking Katsudon babysitting me.” 

Otabek twists his fingers together again. “You need to start taking care of yourself, Yura.” He glances down at his bandaged finger. “We both do. I already texted my manager and turned down the extra hours, and I’m going to stop accepting commissions until after the competition. You-”

“I need help. Ah, damn, I mean-” Yuri presses his fingertips to his temples. “I mean, I’m going to need help with, like, eating and setting up a sleep schedule and shit. Or I’m going to start pushing too hard and forgetting all over again.” He breathes hard. “But there’s so much left to do. It’s already February, Beka.”

Otabek is up and across the room in a heartbeat, drawing Yuri into a tight embrace. The smaller man fits like a puzzle piece next to him, filling the gaps and spaces that were missing. “We’ll schedule everything out then. Once you get some real rest, we can set times for you to eat and sleep and for extra practice for you. The competition isn’t until mid-May, and it’s the beginning of the month. We still have time.” 

Yuri clings to him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. “If you say so. You’ll help, right?”

The older man gives in and kisses Yuri on his golden hair. “Always. Whatever you need me to do. I’m not leaving you, Yura.”

If Yuri squeezes him any tighter, Otabek will start losing air. He doesn’t tell Yuri to ease up, though. “I fucking love you.”

“I love you too.” Otabek hugs him back just as tight. He feels Yuri trembling and starts to worry that he’s hurt him, until he feels the soft hiccuping and stuttering breaths. 

“We’re still boyfriends, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Yuri nods into his chest and Otabek lets him stay there, absently threading his fingers through Yuri’s hair. 

* * *

Katsudon calls for lunch not long after he and Beka make up, and Yuri walks to the kitchen with his hand wrapped around Otabek’s. 

Things are going to be really hard now, ironically. Before, he was just grinding through the days like he would in a video game - going as long as he could, doing as much as possible. Only he’s not a video game character, so he needs to find some balance. And that will be the hardest part for him, he already knows it. He doesn’t know how to stop while he’s ahead, and it’s not like his life comes with a ‘pause’ option for him to just come back later to it. 

He glances up at Otabek. He’ll help. That will make things better. 

It’s still a battle to sit and eat when he doesn’t feel like eating though. But seeing Otabek’s relieved smile is incentive enough for him to finish his bowl of ramen without complaint. 

“Hey, Katsudon. When do I need to meet with the costume designers?” He might as well get started planning stuff out now. Otabek apparently reads minds, because he has his phone out and pulls up his notes app as soon as it’s on.

Katsudon is washing the dishes from lunch up as he thinks. “Well, the sooner the better, I say. Especially if you want a custom-made costume. My friend Phichit might have a few that you’d like ready, but Chris will probably want to do an interview first to get a feel for what would work best for you.”

Otabek has a rough draft of his schedule up already. “Well, your Thursdays are always really free. You and I can go whenever you want, in exchange for one day of extra practice.” 

“We can go after my extra practice though-” Yuri cuts himself off and sighs. Not even a full hour after resolving to start taking better care of himself and he’s already pressing to over-book himself. Again. “Shit, this is going to be rough,” he mumbles to himself. Otabek chuckles and squeezes his knee under the table. 

“We’ll work on it. How about next week?” The brunette angles that question at his flatmate.

Katsudon comes over and glances at the schedule. “I’ll check with them, but I think Phichit will probably be okay with a Thursday afternoon.”

“Okay, fine,” Yuri rolls his eyes just a little. “No extra practice next Thursday. Keep my other days, though. I need the time.” 

“Not really, Yuri,” Katsudon says. “You’ve gotten so much better over the past few months. It’s not so much you as it is the choreography, now. You’re just going to have to find the flow that you like, and it will look natural.”

Goddamn Katsudon. Yuri huffs and leans into Otabek’s space and hopes that obscures his probably-red face from them both. “Whatever, I still need practice time then.”

Beka laughs and plugs in the blocks of time on three of the four remaining days. “Okay, Yura.” 

By the time they’re done, Yuri has his days planned down to the half hour, and it doesn’t look nearly as cluttered as he thought it was going to be. Then again, that’s because the other two are putting limits on his extra practice time, so now he actually has time to eat and then relax between classes. They didn’t go as far as placing a curfew, and Yuri is grateful that they didn’t suggest it, because he’d hate to have to gut them after getting along with them so well. Still he promises himself to try and get to sleep by midnight, point blank. 

Yuri transfers the schedule into his calendar, bit by bit, and it seems doable. When he’s done, he feels Otabek drag him into another hug, and he lets it happen, because he can still have this.

Yeah, they can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _I've found a reason for me_   
_To change who I used to be_   
_A reason to start over new_   
_And the reason is you_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> Oh thank God, they're happy again. I literally could not leave them fighting for more than a chapter, especially after the dozen or so chapters where they _weren't_ together. So let's leave this chapter short and sweet and happy, yes?
> 
> We're coming down the home stretch guys! Come yell at me in the comments!


	25. Imagine Me, Kirk Franklin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Imagine me, being free, trusting you totally_   
_Finally I can imagine me_   
_I admit it was hard to see you being in love with someone like me_   
_But finally I can imagine me_   


Yuri is scanning the crowd of students in Juilliard’s lobby for a familiar dark undercut. It takes him a bit, but eventually he finds Otabek though the din over by a huge poster, typing away on his phone.

“What are you planning, you dummy?” Yuri shoves his way into Otabek’s personal space at the sight of his boyfriend quickly squirreling away his phone. Said boyfriend dodges his lunge for the pocket hiding his phone and redirects Yuri’s attention with a kiss.

“Absolutely nothing that you have to worry about,” Otabek replies easily. “How was class? Did you get to try Lilia’s costume on yet?” 

For once in his life, Yuri thinks back on a costume fitting with something other than complete disdain - because mild agitation is a definite step up. Lilia had demanded to come with him to the first meeting with Viktor’s stylist, Christophe, a little less than two weeks ago. Which had gone over about as well as expected, if one happened to know the two parties involved. Christophe Giacometti, by definition, is nothing but barely-checked innuendos and almost-rude references. Lilia found his entire demeanor more than a little off-putting, and made it well known to them by upping her own sense of regality and still taking no shit. And while those two got along together like oil and water over literally anything else, the minute they started talking patterns and fabrics they were terrifyingly in sync, coming up with a design in literally an hour. The end result was now sitting in his locker in a garment bag, a male contemporary-style counterpart to his mother’s Giselle costume from her earliest performances with Lilia back at the Ballet. The thing was uncomplicated - true to his mother’s tastes - and flowed like water when he ran through the piece in it, so Yuri was happy with it. A few minor adjustments on Chris’s part and final flourishes by Lilia, and then it will be stage-ready.

“Yeah, as usual she’s planned everything perfectly. The one person I’ve ever known to plan an entire performance flawlessly. And You will never repeat that to anyone. If she catches wind of it I’ll never be able to deal with her.” Yuri links his hands with Otabek and leads him outside while he talks.

And then stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Otabek’s motorcycle parked by the curb.

“Beka. What the actual fuck.”

The older man just breezes by him, unconcerned that Yuri is making like a statue in the middle of the sidewalk. Two helmets come out of the rear compartment, and Otabek switches the second one for Yuri’s bags easily. “Come on, Yura, it’s finally warm enough for us to ride. Put that on, we’re going out for lunch before meeting with Phichit.”

Complying in a daze, Yuri goes through the motions of climbing on behind Otabek, fitting himself behind the taller man by muscle memory. He honestly didn’t think he’d see the bike for another month or so, because it’s still actually really cold out. Otabek has a turtleneck and a zip-up hoodie on under his leather jacket, and Yuri is still layering his oversized pullovers over his warm up gear. If memory serves, the temperatures for the rest of the week won’t be going above the fifties - which is a far cry from the highs in the eighties and nineties that comes with the spring and summer. 

But the roads are clear of ice and snow and almost all of the salt that was laid, so maybe that’s all it takes. He leans with Otabek as they slip between traffic and head to a Shake Shake on the Upper East Side, only a few blocks away from Katudon’s stylist friend. They spend an hour in the restaurant, keeping an eye on the bike from their window seats, Yuri splitting his attention between the burger he’s slowly working though and the videos of his latest practice with Roger. The alternating pattern is enough to make sure he finishes his plate and keep him from totally obsessing over the video.

At least it’s easier for him to finish a meal. He doesn’t have to go through an internal civil war every time he has to take a bite like he did before. He still gets annoyed at having to stop his practices early every once in a while, but even Yuri can see that he’s getting better for it. He’s no longer tired all the time, he’s put back on the weight he lost, and he feels stronger. And that and the knowledge that it makes Otabek happy is really all that’s keeping him to his schedule.

He refocuses on the video playing on his phone and sucks his teeth at his image popping a jump, remembering how he felt the bad landing as soon as his feet left the ground. That particular sequence keeps giving him trouble; no matter how many times he’s done it, it still looks awkward - if he manages to get through it at all. This time he fucked it up, but he recovered quickly with an improvised roll, and to be honest his scrambled half-assed somersault could work in place of the  _ tombé _ that was supposed to be there. It would give him time to set up for the next move, and give him more jumping power. Maybe if he plays around with it he can change it to a more gymnastic-like move. 

Otabek is staring at him. Long enough that Yuri can’t ignore him anymore. “What?”

“Nothing really. It just amazes me that you’re learning and choreographing in a foreign dance style in a few short months.” He motions to Yuri’s phone with the video still playing. “Aside from that fall, this looks really good, Yura. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you were doing combination stuff like that for years.”

Yuri is  _ never _ going to get used to Otabek praising him. It always makes him turn into a goddamn firetruck - red and spluttering some nonsense that eventually ends up just being noises. He crams a few curly fries into his mouth to avoid embarrassing himself with a dumbass comment and stares at his phone. “I guess,” he ends up mumbling around the straw of his soda.

Their next stop is further down Lexington Avenue, to Phichit’s hidden studio. Chris specialized in more traditional costumes, but since his combination piece is anything but traditional, Yuri figures that his outfit should match. He’s already told everyone else involved that they could wear whatever casual stuff they wanted. He’s shit out of luck, though, since his skinny jeans don’t give him much room to move around in. Hence the need for something custom made.

Stepping into Phichit’s studio is a totally different experience from stepping into Christophe’s. The Swiss weirdo had a legitimate boutique, with mannequins posing in different regalia and a wall-to-wall display of the fabrics he used and four huge binders full of designs. For Christ’s sake, the man had a back room for fittings completely separate from the front, kitted with wraparound mirrors. Phichit, on the other hand, has two dozen rolling clothes racks filled to overflowing with different articles of clothing circling around a huge craft table with three machines and a mile of fabric on top. In the corner is a photography setup - a backdrop, lights, and an expensive-looking camera on a tripod. The chairs that are around are random and mis-matched, and Yuri can see huge rolls of fabric all along the wall.

This is  _ so  _ much more his speed.

The owner of the organized chaos pops out from behind a set of screens with a tape measure around his neck and a half dozen straight pins in the collar of his shirt. “Hey! You must be Yuri and Otabek. Yuuri told me you’d be stopping by today.”

Phichit bustles over to his table and whisks the pile of fabric away, calling “take a seat anywhere!” over his shoulder as he disappears it behind the screen.

Yuri chooses to perch on the table, while Otabek drops into a chair next to him. “He is  _ way _ too happy,” Yuri mutters under his breath, to which Otabek hushes him with a hand on his leg. The designer reappears juggling a notebook, pencil, his phone, and a laptop. He starts speaking as he sets up.

“So my Yuuri gave me a little to work with - namely, just your videos, Yuri. But from what I saw, you’re really good! I’d love to put together an outfit that will work for this piece.” By the time he’s done, the laptop is open and running, the phone is playing one of Yuri’s practice videos, and the notebook is open to a page full of scrawled notes. “So, what’s this all for? And what kind of style are you going for?”

That launches them into a ten-minute Sparknotes crash course on everything, which to Yuri feels like they’re selling themselves  _ way _ short. Because there is no way that the months and months of struggling with every little thing along the way can be summed up in a page or two. Phichit seems to get it though, the importance of everything, and is all the way on board with helping them come up with something for him.

“Well to start, I’m pretty sure that I have nothing on hand that will work, mostly because they won’t let you do all of these crazy moves.” Phichit pauses the video on his phone with Yuri mid- _ grande jeté _ . “But I can recreate anything that catches your eye with some fabric that will let you stretch. Or we can come up with something from scratch. Whatever works for you.”

Yuri pops off of the table and starts flipping through the hangars on the racks. This particular rack seems to be full of shirts, ranging from more traditional dance wear to formal stuff for the likes of balls and galas to oddity shirts to basic day-wear. “You made all of this stuff?” 

Phichit beams from over at the table. “Yup! Go ahead and poke around until you find something you like.”

Permission given, Yuri pulls off a tiger-striped shirt in charcoal grey that caught his eye and black and a water-colored t-shirt from their hangars, and after one last look through the hangars he drifts over to the first rack that he sees with pants. He’s looking through them when a pair of dark-wash jeans falls on his head, obscuring his vision.

Of course it’s Beka. “The jeans are over here, Yura. You’ll probably like those, though.” The wink his boyfriend gives before he turns back to the clothes rack he was inspecting is so quick Yuri almost misses it. 

Yuri pulls the jeans off of his head. Not bad. “Look for some distressed ones, Beka.”

Phichit pipes up from the table again from where he’s bent over the computer with some fabric store’s website up. “If you do use distressed jeans, or any jeans at all really, I suggest getting them a size or two bigger so that the stretch fabric will fold like regular denim.” Both he and Otabek give the Thai man an ‘okay’ before going back to hunting. There’s so much random stuff here that Yuri feels like he’s shopping in a thrift store or something, and almost forgets to start putting together an actual outfit. In an hour, his arms are full of clothes that he has to juggle to keep off of the floor. A veritable whole second wardrobe that he might actually come back and snag one day.

Then he, Otabek, and Phichit are spreading everything out over the mega table and swapping different articles of clothing around like a huge, disorganized game of fashion solitaire. A couple of the pieces Yuri decides he doesn’t actually like, and Otabek makes himself really useful by putting them back on their hangars and back on their proper racks. Some just don’t go well with what he wants for the show, and those are returned as well after Yuri has pictures of them. Phichit explains the merits and values of what’s left, and some more get chucked. What’s left is four shirts, two pairs of jeans, and one set of formal slacks that look like denim from a distance..

Some more switching, just to check, but Yuri kind of already knows what he wants to use for the performance. The distressed jeans and the black-on-black tiger print shirt. He can accent it with one of his hoodies from his flat and swipe some accent jewelry from the Old Man. “This set.”

Phichit is on top of things from then on, flipping through the fabrics online and scribbling in his notebook before a measuring tape is whipped out. 

Damnit, Yuri  _ hates _ this part of fittings. People all up in his personal space. Even if Phichit is cool, he doesn’t do close proximity with people unless it’s on his terms. 

But no, the Thai just wraps the tape around his wrist one time and makes note of the length, and then pulls out a calculator. More scribbling, and then a basic male sketch comes out of nowhere, and then Phichit’s filling in the blanks like he has every measurement under the sun.

Yuri must have been staring a bit too long, because Phichit starts explaining. “Most humans have pretty similar proportions. The distance around your wrist is the same as between your thumb and middle fingers, and twice around your wrist is roughly the distance around your neck. Three times between shoulder and wrist, typically about four around the waist. Well, you get the idea. For now, I can work with this. When I have a prototype we can fine-tune then. Sound cool?”

Yuri peers around at the sketch. Those numbers are actually pretty close to his normal measurements, give or take an inch. Huh. Cool. “Sure. When’s that going to be?”

Phichit scratches his head with the pencil. “Mmm… maybe in like a week? Maybe two?”

Yuri glaces at Otabek, who has become Yuri’s defacto time manager, and sees that his boyfriend is already looking for a place to slide this in. They agreed that they both need at least fifteen hours of down-time outside of sleep in a week, and anything that pops up - like an extra fitting - can’t take more than three hours of that away. If they have to juggle around their schedules to make room for things, they will. But the rest and relaxation is now a non-negotiable for them, and they’re trying hard to keep it.

“Take your time,” Otabek says as he’s flipping through both of their phones, “we’re actually pretty busy for the next two weeks. We can do anything after the twelfth, though.”

“I can do the twelfth. Everything will be ready for your first fitting then. And you can do a little test run here, if you’d like. I can clear the space.”

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees. “I’d rather us iron out any problems sooner rather than later.”

“I hear you.” Phichit finishes his order on some fabric as Yuri and Otabek start packing up to leave. “So I’ll see you guys then.” 

“Yep.” Yuri throws a wave over his shoulder as he texts Katsudon. He wants to stay at Beka’s like they normally do on Thursdays, so the update is necessary. Otherwise his flatmate will go off the rails.

He’s not expecting a quick response. Nor the borderline command to come back. 

Otabek pokes his forehead, right between his scrunched up brows. “What’s wrong?”

Yuri blows an agitated stream of air through the fringe hanging in his eyes. “Katsudon wants me back for some reason.”

“Did he tell you that you can’t stay over?”

Yuri checks, just to be sure. “No, just to come back.” He clicks his tongue and sends another text, making it absolutely clear that he has no intention of staying for more than an hour. “Whatever, let’s just go and see what he wants. We’re leaving as soon as he or stupid Viktor get annoying.”

Otabek laughs. “Sure, Yura. Although, you always think Viktor is annoying.”

“True.” Yuri shrugs as he puts on his helmet. “But I don’t hate Katsudon, so let’s just get this over with.”

They make it over to Yuri’s flat with little trouble, and Otabek parks the bike on the curb, just under the stairs. Before they even start up, Otabek’s hand slides around Yuri’s waist so fast that he gets a bit of whiplash. In a second he’s spinning around and then he’s being kissed like the damn world is ending. Not that he really cares, he will never complain about kissing his boyfriend.

“What’s that for, dummy?” Yuri laughs as soon as he’s allowed a second to breath. Otabek is smiling like a dork too.

“Because I can. I love you, you know?”

Yuri rolls his eyes a little. “Yeah, and I love you too. Come on, before we have a crisis to deal with.” Dragging his boyfriend up the stairs, Yuri fishes for his keys and feeds it into the lock. He turns suspicious in a nanosecond, though, because all of the lights are off. “What the f-”

“SURPRISE!”

Lights on, noisemakers going, confetti  _ everywhere _ . There’s a cake on the kitchen table and about a hundred variations of junk food that are definitely  _ not _ on his diet plan, and everything is covered in orange, gold, and black streamers. 

And then there are the idiots taking up the practice area. Viktor and Yuuri. Mila. Dumbass JJ and Isabella. Amanet. Rita. Lilia and even Yakov. All with huge stupid grins on.

Otabek puts a stupid party hat on his head. “Happy birthday, Yura.”

“You jerks.” Okay, no, he  _ is not _ going to cry. Nope. Not today. Not happening. “How?”

“You completely lost track of the days. Otabek got us to do this just this morning.” Katsudon completely throws his boyfriend under the bus, which is the perfect excuse to spin around and hide from the rest of the peanut gallery. 

“So this is  _ your _ doing, then?” Yuri jabs a finger into Beka’s chest - and the moron doesn’t even have the grace to look sorry in the slightest. Nope, he just throws some confetti at him. Idiot.

“Yep. Figured you’d like a small party and tomorrow off. Since you’re eighteen now and all.”

“You’re all dumbasses.”

“So do you want the cake or not?” Otabek quirks an eyebrow. “I even managed to get Lilia to let you off your diet plan for tonight. No soda or cookies? You sure?”

Yuri finds himself torn between wanting to punch his dumbass boyfriend, yelling at the peanut gallery, and seriously trying not to cry. So he settles for squeezing his dumbass boyfriend to death and hiding in his shirt for a quick minute while yelling “you’re all idiots!” at the crowd. Perfect solution.

Otabek wheezes as Yuri forces all the air out of his lungs and hugs him back. “Cake then?”

“Yeah. Get me a piece of that stupid cake.”

He really loves his dumbass boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back guys. 
> 
> I love each and every one of you for your support. I read every comment. It helped, knowing that you guys are willing to give me time and space and support me even though you don't even really know me. 
> 
> Not to go into detail, but some family problems came up where the police almost got involved, someone ended up in the hospital for a heart condition, I regressed with my depression and anxiety so much that I had to get away from my own house just to re-center myself at one point. But things have gotten better now and I feel like I'm ready to handle life in general again. 
> 
> I can't even begin to tell you how much I value the support and love you all show. I love you guys. Thank you, so damn much. 
> 
> This chapter's title means a lot to me. It's one of the songs that will pick me up, no matter what I'm in. Even if you aren't religious, go and [have a listen.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I66SDeRQSJ4) It might help you one day. I know it helped me.


	26. Silhouette, Jonathan Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for that dress rehearsal, you guys!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _All together_   
_We're making a break for goals we’ve got to get_   
_I don't know, I don't know_   
_Quite anything yet_   
_No going back now_   
_But we’re taking a look behind us, don't forget_   
_I don't know, I don't know_   
_Quite anything yet_   


Otabek attempts to focus on the sound tech guy that Katsuki brought along, but Emil’s voice just doesn’t register. Not with any coherent words, anyway. Or maybe Otabek is just too distracted to really get a hold on what the blonde is saying. Because he’s one hundred percent focused on another blonde in the room.

Yuri looks resplendent in his silvery-white outfit. Like a prince straight out of a freaking storybook. Loose bell sleeves that flutter at the slightest movement, the top cinching at his waist with a soft belt before trailing over precisely cut faux-slacks with silver threading. A small silver circlet catches the light in between the folds of Yuri’s braided hair. 

Lilia and Christophe bustle over and start fussing over small imperfect things that Otabek can’t even begin to guess at. But he’s sure that Yuri couldn’t look any more perfect if the entire world tried. And it looks like Yuri’s choreographer and designer are trying damn hard.

Damn, and that ethereal creature was _ his_. 

“Otabek!”

Whirling around, the Kazakh becomes aware of his surroundings just in time to feel the full force of Rita’s kick to the shin. Which ends up smarting something fierce.

“This poor man has been _ trying _ to explain this _ fancy-ass system _ to you for the past hour,” she hisses, jabbing the end of her bow into his side. “Do us all a favor and pay attention before I throw you from Fourth Ring. And for your sake I hope you don’t land in the orchestra pit or the chairs, cleaning you up would be _ such _ a pain for the staff.”

And with that, she stomps off back to the seats by the stage, where Aman and JJ are waiting to finish tuning up. Isabella has yet to show with her select few singers, but that’s okay. It’s barely half past eight, and they have a full twelve hours in the Koch Theater today. More than enough time for them to come, more than enough time for them to run everything a number of times, more than enough time to smooth out problems as they crop up.

He hopes.

Otabek sighs and refocuses. “Sorry, Emil. I'm here now, promise. One more time?”

Emil Nekola shrugs the entire fiasco off, which says as much about him as it does about Katsuki’s judgement. “No harm done. So you wanted to run your DJ setup through the house speakers instead of your own, right? What are we working with?”

And just like that, Otabek is in his zone. When it comes to his gear, he is a tech geek at heart, and rightly so. He paid for his toys with half of his liver and a lung for the quality and versatility. “Yeah, we need surround sound for these, and as good as my speakers are, they can’t fill this huge auditorium. I have a Pioneer DJM-V10 mixer and DDJ-1000 controller. I can run my turntables, sampler, and computer through those.”

“Nice, man. How many outputs can we run to house?”

“Two on the mixer for stereo sound, and a full six on the controller. I want to keep it immersive.”

Emil nods and starts setting some presets in the sound booth. “Great, that’s squared away. What about your backing musicians and vocalists? Which, by the way, they have to be here for sound check.”

Otabek’s phone goes off in his pocket. It’s a text from Isabella - they’ll be here in about an hour and a half. “They’re on their way. Rita and Aman have quarter inch mono patch chords and bluetooth pickups on them. Jean’s keyboard and synth need to go to the snake.”

Emil leans over the side of the sound booth and pops open a panel. A thick rope of cables taped down to the floor runs inside, and the blonde is counting audio leads. “Let them use the snake too. How many vocalists did you say?”

“Uh...Jean needs one. Isabella is bringing nine others, herself included.” So including the two keys, two strings, vocalists, and his setup, that’s eighteen of the twenty line-in feeds that Otabek can see. Should he…?

Emil pops up and replaces the panel. “There’s one extra feed in since number seven needs to be replaced. I’ll leave it live and you decide what you want to do with it.” 

Ah, screw it. They’re already this far, might as well throw in the last penny he has. “Leave that last line for me. I’ll hook one of my mics up to it.”

“What are we doing for lighting?” the other man asks as he starts rummaging around for microphones for the vocalists. 

Otabek thinks for a moment. “Let’s hold off on that for the combined piece for now. Lilia needs to get her time, or else we’re all dead to her. We’ll work out lighting as we go along.”

“Roger that. Come find me when you’re ready to hook up.”

Nodding along, Otabek leaves the blonde alone and goes on the hunt for Yuri’s roommate. He and Phichit are over by the orchestra pit, talking and gesturing at the stage. Viktor is close by, scribbling away at something with Roger. The rest of his band is a bit farther off, probably running through the combined piece. Emil is back at the sound booth, and there are a few other hands running around behind the stage curtains. Yuri and Christophe are fixing a small wardrobe malfunction with an emergency sewing kit while Mila puts away her hair and makeup tools. Lilia is talking to a stage hand that scurries off with a CD. And they’re still waiting on Isabella and another dozen people.

Holy shit, this got _ so _ out of hand.

When he and Yuri first started this crazy scheme all the way back in September, he thought that they were just going to put something together, just the two of them, maybe two or three others. Seven months later, barely into April, just under a month before they do this for real, and he’s looking at a team of almost thirty people buzzing around, all of them ready to take their cues from him or Yuri or Lilia or Yuuri.

Otabek is hit with a sense of separation. Never had he ever thought that he would be in a position like this. Had never intended it. He still vividly remembers busking all afternoon and playing at a club on some nights, still clearly recalls never thinking anything was wrong with that life until Yuri waltzed in and flipped the proverbial table on its end. It almost feels like he’s living it second-hand, like he’s reading someone else’s story. But at the same time, pride pushes back and reconnects him. Even if this wasn’t his plan, he’s here now on his own merit, these people helping him out of love and support and respect. Now, everything is just a push to reach higher and do better to do right by the people he loves.

All thanks to that little blonde natural disaster.

Damn. 

He just looks around, watching everyone handle their areas of expertise. For a while, it’s more of the same, people talking and moving, and Otabek just watches them all. Lilia strides past him and gestures up to the sound booth. One of the hands Katsuki brought along appears with a mic for her, and the room settles in a second.

“Dim the house lights to a quarter. I want four moving lights on Yuri at all times during this piece, no warm tones. Draw the second curtain and use the background lighting preset that I have sent over. Yuri, do not push yourself this time. Get a feel for the stage and we will go from there. Sound, wait for my signal to begin the music.”

The moment she puts the mic down, activity explodes again. Everyone clears off of the stage, the lights in the audience go down, and Yuri prepares for his piece. Otabek just drops into the nearest seat to watch. Lilia ends up barking more orders to the crew who aren’t quite used to her as of yet until the image she has in her mind comes to life on the stage. 

Yuri is uncharacteristically still and quiet, patiently waiting in his opening pose. Not even his eyes drift from some middle ground spot on the glossed floorboards, making Otabek think that he’s not actually looking at anything, but rather thinking to himself.

Otabek must have missed whatever signal Lilia gave, because while he’s looking at his boyfriend music floats down. Soft at first, swelling and receding to a bittersweet refrain. Vaguely, he recalls hearing this melody from some fantasy trilogy from when he was a child, but as soon as the thought registers it’s just as quickly put back down because Yuri is in motion.

The time of Yuri locking himself away when he dances is over. Now, he is alive and feeling every note to the deepest parts of his core. And his eyes … Otabek almost can’t look at his boyfriend’s eyes for how much love and sorrow and hope they contain. It threatens to sweep him off of his own feet. And yet Yuri dances on.

If this is Yuri taking it easy, Otabek will most certainly fall when he puts his all into it.

At the end, Yuri slowly drops his final pose and looks to Lilia, standing prim and proper in the middle of the sea of chairs. She is not smiling, but the nod of approval is all the indication that Yuri needs to hop off of the stage. Christophe is on the younger blonde in a moment, poking and prodding at the costume while Mila fusses with the circlet. All of the stage hands converge on Lilia for tips on what to to do better next time. 

Through the slipstream of bodies, Yuri’s eyes meet his, and Otabek thinks back to that first day when he saw the jade green eyes of his soldier. And he knows that they will be just fine at the end of all of this.

* * *

Yuri loves his ballet costume, the one that Christophe named Evenstar, he really does. It’s one of the few ballet costumes that he will willingly wear again. But he’s tired, and packing himself back up after every run through is wearing him down. So he’s glad for their break at lunch. And besides, Christophe needs to take the thing and fix some of the stitching on the front left tail.

One of the stage hands, a small slip of a Chinese kid named Guang-Hong, hands him a sandwich and a water bottle before running off to get more for someone else. He’s a good kid, and Yuri is surprised to admit that. Then again, there’s only so much time you can spend around Katsudon before you start acting a little like him. 

He’s changed into his combined piece costume that Phichit brought along. The man is a serious miracle worker, Yuri thinks, because his fake jeans give him all the room he needs to hit his oversplits and more. The top is the same black-on-black tiger pattern as before, but now it’s made of athletic fabric to keep him cool. And his favorite leopard hoodie is tied around his waist. The only thing that throws off his normal street look is the skin-tone jazz shoes that he’s sporting. He still refuses to try a _ pirouette _in his sneakers.

Walking out from behind the stage left curtains, he scans the large auditorium for - there he is. Otabek is helping the blond sound tech guy get everyone microphones and setting his band up at the base of the stage. Isabella and JJ are chatting as they start setting up his keyboard stands. 

“Hey,” he calls to them before they start putting things in the wrong places, “let Beka stay center. Then Rita and you, JJ. Aman can go on the other side.”

Just and Yuri’s gearing up to have a sniping match with JJ, he’s metaphorically clubbed over the head when the Canadian just nods and puts the first stand down a few feet away from Otabek’s DJ station. Isabella speed-walks oer to him and starts pointing at her singers that she brought. 

“Okay, so me, Sara, and Kayla need to be together for the trio part. Michelle and JJ are the male duo. Alex is lead, so maybe put him next to Aman?” 

“Yeah, sure. The other half of the male duo goes on the other side of your idiot, away from Rita. Who is doing the harmony with Alex in the beginning?” Yuri inches closer to the edge of the stage and starts blocking where people will be.

Isabella calls her singers up. One by one, she and Yuri start placing people in a huge semi-circle centered around their four live musicians. A quick glance around tells Yuri that Otabek himself is back in the sound booth with the blonde male, probably talking about wires and who has which mic. They’ve been at it pretty much all day. And Yuri would feel jealous if he knew anything about what they were on about. AS it stands, though, he really just needs to let Beka work the tech stuff while he does presentation. And on that note, he gives his block placements one last look before pulling out his phone and snapping a quick picture.

Katsudon appears behind him and switches places with Isabella as she takes her place next to that Sara girl. “I want them to stand here. Can your lighting crew handle spotlights on this many people?”

This time it’s his roommate that examines the layout with a critical eye. Then the Japanese man looks up to the rafters, where hundreds of lights are festooned up there, with some of his own stage hands scurrying around on the scaffolding like monkeys. “Yeah, they should be fine. We have to work out the lighting order, though. Which light goes on who, and when.” Yuuri whistles through his teeth, and in a heartbeat all of the hands are in front of them. “So? What are we doing, Yuri?”

Said Russian blinks up at his roommate. “You’re letting me decide?”

Katsudon shrugs. “Well, yeah. It’s your piece. And Otabek’s. The rest of us are just here to help you two. So you two call the shots.”

_ Oh, fuck the hell yes. _ Yuri grins like a savage. “Sweet. I want the musicians always lit, with each part getting their own spotlight too. Alex is going to be up a lot. Otherwise, if they aren’t doing a solo part, keep them dimmed down. I need the main spotlight on me, and don’t be surprised if I bleed into a soloist’s space for a second. During the huge group parts - which you’ll see what I mean towards the end - light everyone up from those -” Yuri points to the floor spotlights hidden just over the edge of the stage in the orchestra pit, “-instead of from the rafters. Because I need a video feed on the back wall then. Otabek has the entire video background and the recorded audio set up. Everyone got that? Great. I’ll have them play it one time so you can see what I mean.”

And with that Yuri shoos them all away and grabs the mic off of JJ’s stand. “Hey, Otabek, can we run the music one time with everyone? I need the lighting crew to get themselves together.”

His boyfriend ducks out from behind the sound booth as his voice carries. Otabek gives him a thumbs up, rushes some quick note or the other to the blonde tech guy, and jogs over to the stage. When the taller man kisses his cheek, he punches him lightly back in retaliation for making him blush in public.

“Get behind those turntables, you dumbass,” he mutters playfully.

“As you wish,” Otabek shoots back as he pulls his headphones on. “Emil, how are we?”

The blond tech guy - Emil, apparently - gives them a thumbs up and starts the track. 

“I’m keeping this for this time,” Yuri tells JJ, and proceeds to completely ignore the Canadian’s spluttering as he starts reiterating his complex lighting scheme to the hand up in the rafters. Turns out that Katsudon taught these kids well, because they caught on really quickly. A few stops and starts surprisingly don’t try his patience as they iron out the wrinkles that crop up, and Yuri finds himself having a lot of fun telling Katsudon’s kids what to do. In an hour, he’s happy with the lights and sound and background graphics projected on the back wall. 

Roger is next to come up. “Nice lighting composition, Yuri. Keep playing to your strengths and this will be a performance no one will ever forget. Provided you don’t mess up, of course.” The man grins down at him.

“Oh, I won’t. No way.” Yuri hands the mic back to JJ one last time and sets himself up to run it through. “Just watch us. We are going to kill it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo what's up you guys! 
> 
> So Shillouette is one of the Naruto Shippuuden openings, and my inner anime nerd is coming trhough hella hard, and I don't care. I particularly like []()insert “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6f4LGTbcuc” and “>Jonathan Young's version of the lyrics. he just manages to make things more epic. 
> 
> Now I posed this before, but the references are veeeery subtle. I mean, you'll see the songs next chapter, but hey, give it a whirl. See if you can't guess one of Yuri's pieces. 
> 
> And yes, those are actual real pieces of DJ equipment, and electric cellos and violins are very much a thing, and bluetooth pickups for traditional ones are super handy.
> 
> Much love! Comments and kudos make a girl happy!


	27. May It Be, 2Cellos/A Million Dreams, Alex Boyé ft. Dixie State University

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Close one book to open another new story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _May it be the shadows call_   
_Will fly away_   
_May it be you journey on_   
_To light the day_   
_When the night is overcome_   
_May you rise to find the sun_   


In all of his years of dance, Yuri can’t remember a day that has ever given him as much anxiety as today. 

Eyeing his two costumes hanging and wrapped up in the lockers at Juilliard, the swirling tornado of emotion the only thing that’s stopping him from packing the clothes away into a garment bag, Yuri fights the itch to fuck off to some remote corner of New York and wait for tomorrow. Except he can’t do that, can he.

He and Otabek have Very Important Things To Do tonight. Of the winning variety.

“Come on, stupid, you’re wasting time,” he mutters to himself as he forces his hands to move. The swaths of color disappear into his garment bag one at a time, and are arranged with careful hands. Then he checks for his shoes - the traditional ballet flats, his new jazz shoes, and his sneakers. Two are placed carefully in the bottom compartment of the bag and then he puts his sneakers on. And then he looks for his silver circlet and checks it for scratches.

“Well, you standing there and playing with your costumes isn’t going to get you out of here any faster.”

Yuri spins around and sees Mila loitering around the entrance to the locker room. She has her large two-ton makeup survival kit on her shoulder. Her words are a jab at him, but her eyes say that she knows where he’s at. He wants the day to be already over, to be on the other side of this so they can deal with the outcome then. This whole anticipation thing is driving him just a little bit crazy.

“I’m coming, _ бaбa_.” She, of course, is right. Eventually, he’s going to have to walk out of here and let Katsudon drive them over to the Koch Theater. To get to the other side, he needs to start walking.

So Yuri pulls his shit together and quickly grabs the costumes and his bag from the locker. Then he’s marching down to the garage with Mila a half step behind him, to where his roommate and his roommate’s dumbass boyfriend are waiting for them. 

“Let’s get moving, then,” Katsudon says. Yuri lays his costumes down flat in the trunk of the Toyota Camry as everyone else piles in. He keeps his bag with him though, and then they’re off. He loses track of the passage of time after that, and not because he’s so tired that he dozes through the trip. It’s the exact opposite, in fact. He’s so jazzed that everything is speeding by him in a long streak of color and sound. When everything stops, they’re at the theater. Sign in is in the lobby, with a separate table for each division.

Holy fuck, there are a lot of people here. The lines are circling around the room like a human-sized version of Snake, with stanchions keeping the different acts separate. And thankfully, they’re labeled. Yuri plants himself on the end of the Ballet Division line while Katsudon takes up residence at the back of the Combined Division line. Thank God they only need one person from the team to do check in. He’s antsy enough as it is, crawling around the room once. He has no intention of doing it twice. 

It’s almost an hour before he gets to the check in table, and now he can see why it took so long to get here in the first place. The receptionist he’s dealing with makes him go through a dozen papers dense with text and full of fine print. It’s all a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo that he nods along with as he dashes off his signature on the bottom of each and every one. Only then does he get his performance number and a folder with wristbands for the rest of his team, a program, and a map of the building. Everyone is setting up in an underground auditorium while they wait their turn. 

Yuri steps off to the side while he waits for Katsudon and the others to catch up with him. As soon as he knows that his non-essential crew is set up in their seats, Yuri disappears down an unmarked side door.

The ballet division is blocked for around three in the afternoon, and Yuri spends his small amount of free time fiddling around with his phone in one of the back stairwells. He’s not in the mood to chitchat with his friends, and he’s certainly not going to psych himself out by hanging around his competition. Besides, Beka and the rest of his band will be showing up soon because they’re coming after taking care of an errand. Isabella and her singers will be in around five, when the preparations for the combined division start. Until then, he’s by himself until it’s time to change. Emails, social media, games, anything to distract him from the stretch of nothing he has to grind through.

It works, though, because Yuri completely loses track of time. What brings him back is a text from Katsudon asking where he is. He has a half hour to get himself stage ready.

Yuri all but bolts up and out of the stairwell and back to the auditorium. Which is how he slams into Mila, who is running _out _ of the auditorium. Probably to go look for him.

“There you are! Jeeze, kitten, stop disappearing. Like, seriously. Come on, you have to get ready.”

“Okay, okay, sorry _ бaбa_, jeez. Let me through so I can change.”

The redhead does him one better, latching on to his arm and tugging him through the mass of other performers milling around. There are fold-out tables scattered around, and each and every one of them are filled with costumes and makeup bags and shoes and instruments and other paraphernalia of performers.

Next thing he knows, Yuri is sitting in a fold-out chair and Mila is brushing on some light makeup. He distinctly remembers a time when she had to borderline beg him to let her play around with his face, but now he doesn’t mind it at all. And Mila always manages to make him look good. It’s weird to think that they’ve been doing this for almost two whole years. Even weirder to think that he wouldn't mind wearing makeup, and weirder still that he would rather it be Mila than anyone else doing it.

Her makeup brush does one more sweep across his forehead before disappearing into her bag. “And done. As per usual, I have created a masterpiece and you look amazing. Ruin my hard work and I’ll make you regret it.” The redhead beams at him as she snaps the lid of a makeup compact closed.

“You’ve been hanging out with Rita too much,” Yuri grumbles. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

“She’s cool people, what can I say.” Mila shrugs and quickly packs everything up. “Don’t mess up, because I’m live streaming both of your performances.” And with that, she’s gone, off to find her seat to make good on her promise-slash-threat. And to distribute the armbands to everyone they need for tonight, since they’ve all probably arrived by now.

Yuri rolls his eyes at her retreating back and starts pulling on his Evenstar costume, piece by piece, taking care to keep his face far away from the fabric. Chris isn’t here to clean anything if he ruins the silver-white combo now. At least the top is one that opens in the front with fasteners.

And now on to his hair. The circlet he’s supposed to wear is supposed to sit on his brow, and doesn’t have any pins or teeth or clasps to keep it on his head. He’s going to have to weave his hair through it to keep it in place. With a sigh, he starts trying to braid it down when a hand knocks his out of the way. “You will make the braid off-center if you list to the side. Sit up straight,” Lilia’s voice commands from behind him. His back straightens immediately as Lilia parts and twists his hair around the thin metal.

The familiar feeling of fingers that aren’t his own pulling gently on his scalp throws him back a decade. Back to when his mother used to braid his hair before his dance classes, before a show. Lilia works with the efficiency she always has, and in mere minutes she’s coaxed his blonde mane into an elegant braid, wrapped around the circlet. 

“Thanks,” he whispers. Because he hasn’t had a moment quite like this in a long time, and he’s missed it.

Lilia squeezes his shoulders once. “You are up next. Keep your head up and let them be inspired by you. Make it so they will only remember you this night.”

Yuri can’t trust his voice, so he settles for nodding once. Lilia walks him to his entrance on stage left, then disappears back to her station at the coordinators’ section. 

He keeps his head in the game as the previous dancer finishes her bows and walks off. He’s present as the announcer calls his name. He’s aware of the hush that falls over the crowd as he takes his opening pose.

The first note of the music supplants everything. 

Yuri feels himself moving, his body transitioning from one move to the next across the floor and through the lights, easy as breathing. In his mind, though, he’s not on a stage in front of thousands of people. He’s not competing against two dozen other dancers. He’s not making one of the largest gambles of his life.

No, he’s dancing with his mother in a field of warm light, the two of them alone but for the other. She is young and healthy and strong like she once was as her feet fall in time with his. Her hair is long and thick and shimmers as it falls to her waist. Her face is full and warm and smiling at him.

_ ‘I love you’_, he tells her with every part of him, _ ‘I love you and I’m never going to forget you and I’m going to spend the rest of my days making you proud.’ _He tells her the things she already knows, over and over again, in the only way he knows how, in the only way that matters to them. Her smile is so radiant it outshines the light around them. 

_ ‘I know, my dearest. I know, and I love you too. You have always made me proud.’ _

Nothing can contain the joy that fills Yuri as he dances with his mother. It spills over unchecked and they let it. It floods around them, consumes him, and in this moment Yuri is free.

* * *

Lilia might have been right, Yuri muses as Mila scrubs off the simple makeup in order to apply more. Dancing the challenging ballet piece right before his insane combined piece is a complicated thing. 

His teacher managed to get him a solid hour break between his two performances, but that’s barely enough time for a cool-down. Because now everyone is rushing to do some last-minute prep. _ Everyone_.

He has to change and get his hair and makeup redone, Rita and Aman have to tune up, his boyfriend has to set up his entire DJ station, everyone needs to be hooked up to the sound system, and the stage hands have to work lighting, dound, and the visuals as soon as the previous act is done. They have like _ no time_.

“Yuri, please stay still,” Mila sighs again. The pencil she’s working with closes in on his eye, and Yuri makes like a statue in the chair. He can hear the singers warming up vocally, the odd notes of Rita and Aman as they try to fine-tune their strings, the _ click, click _ of Otabek checking wires. Someone is humming the melody, and another voice joins in a soft harmony.

He also hears Mila click her tongue as something else goes wrong with the makeup routine, and he feels the damp cloth rub at the corner of his eye again. “Damnit.”

One more pass, and finally Mila is done. Yuri checks his phone - shit, he has twelve minutes - and then moves to change into his second outfit of the day. Mila then dashes around, checking everyone’s outfits, seeing what needs to be pinned or tied or sewed on the fly. She’s nothing but an agitated red blob of motion, and the effect starts rubbing off on everyone. Yuri starts rushing to swap his clothes and very nearly careens into his lead singer.

At five minutes to curtain for them, a stage manager appears and waits for them to gather themselves together, looking mildly amused by their disorder.

In retrospect, it might not have been a good idea to bring all of the equipment down here. Because now they have to bring it all upstairs.

Whatever. Too late now.

Yuri makes himself useful by going over and helping Otabek break down his equipment once more. He slings the rope of cables over his shoulder as Otabek heaves his tech bag on to his shoulder. They each take a turntable, and Otabek gets the controller. Then comes the mass exodus through the stairs, and they sneak a quick kiss before following.

“You ready for this?” 

Yuri tosses his fringe out of his eyes and pins Beka down with all the confidence he can gather. “Hell yes. We are going to destroy them.”

The older man grins back at him. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

By the time they make it up to the platform, everyone is already in place and setting up, and they rush to join them. He and Otabek have done this so many times - in train stations, at the clubs, in Otabek’s loft - that even in the dark they assemble his table and everything on it in record time. In the last few moments of darkness they are allowed, all of the instruments are connected, all of the mics are on, and all of them fall still.

This is it. One more piece, and they will be past the hard part. 

Yuri glances back at Otabek, at the rest of his co-stars, at the stage hands up in the rafters, then at Emil all the way back in the sound booth. He gives everyone a nod as he sinks into his first pose. 

The first beat of the African choreography is easy. So is the next. The moves are comfortable now, the stances that were once so foreign now coming easily to him. He falls into the flow and grip of the piece, and he catches a glimpse of Alex in his spotlight as the African man sings the opening. The others join in the background, JJ playing his double key setup, Rita and Aman adding their strings at the chorus. One by one, the singers get their spotlights as they take their turns singing. Yuri can see it all on the periphery of his dance. It’s just as he imagined it, and now he _ can’t fucking wait _ to see the recording of this.

Yuri feels Otabek’s eyes on him, and in a split moment of spontaneity, he adds a quick spin into the choreography to throw his boyfriend a wink. He catches the small thumbs up that his boyfriend sends back and that’s all that matters right now. This is _ theirs _, and they are going to own it. 

The contemporary section blends right out of the African, and a huge grin lights up his face. Yuri feels good, so good. He feels light, like he’s a second from flying right out of the damn room. The image of everyone on the stage bursting into the air and performing three stories above the heads of the viewers on the ground floor is so absurd that he outright laughs as he launches into an aerial cartwheel. He’s having the time of his life, showing off everything he’s learned, bragging on his friends’ talents, putting on a show the likes of which he’s never considered even attempting before. Even the hip hop section turns into a huge game and a dare for anyone to try and get in their way. It’s the culmination of all of their efforts, of the collective pinnacle of their crafts, and it’s even better than he thought it would be.

And at the last second, Otabek turns it to perfection, singing the last line just as Yuri moves through the last sequence.

The lights dim to the sound of an applause like thunder, ricocheting off of every wall.

Not that he waits that long to burst up and tackle his boyfriend.

“I fucking love you, Otabek Altin,” he whispers. Strong arms come around his body and holds him flush to the body he’s clinging to.

“I love you too, Yuri Plisetsky.”

* * *

And now they’re back to waiting. 

Everyone - every single fucking act from the entire day - is packed in the underground auditorium. The tables have been cleared and everyone stands in the section dedicated to their division. There’s a large monitor on the wall that’s live streaming the showcase that Lilia’s program is putting on while the judges are deciding the final placements.

Mila is leaning on the wall next to Yuri, who in turn is nestled under Otabek’s arm. The rest of the band and the singers are milling around as they wait for the other divisions to go. 

“We were doing that last year,” the redhead muses. “And you damn near gave Lilia a complex the way you tested her.”

Yuri just shrugs as Otabek gives him a look. “I didn’t care as much then. Even if she had graded us on that performance I still would have beaten all of you.”

They wait and watch as the theater kids go, then the literature nerds with their spoken word and poetry, then the singers, then the musicians. Each time, the program manager brings up the five top acts of the division, and the rest of them send the winners off with their own applause as they watch from down here. 

It’s hard not to watch the disappointment across the faces of those who are left behind, though.

For the first time, Yuri entertains the thought that he and Otabek aren’t the only ones who are desperate for this win. He doesn’t know anyone else’s story, doesn’t know what compelled them to enter this year. Maybe it’s something like what he wants - to be noticed by someone. Maybe they need the money, like Otabek does. Maybe they’re here for the challenge, and they just found out that they aren’t anywhere close to where they need to be. 

If they’re even half as desperate as he and Otabek are to win this, Yuri feels sorry for those left here. 

The manager pokes her head back in and starts calling names. “Dance division: Emily Lee.”

A petite Korean girl hops up off of the floor and makes a bee line to the manager.

“Asuka Nakamura and Euni Cho.” Now a Japanese girl duo head over and join Emily and the manager.

“Jazzy Mitchel.” There goes the girl that had been in a panic about her shoe being missing. She ended up doing her piece barefoot and seemingly didn’t let it affect her performance at all. Yuri bites the inside of his lip.

“Quincy Chalmers.” The only dark-skinned boy in the dance division glides past, and Yuri feels Otabek squeeze him just a little. 

“Yuri Plisetsky.” 

The breath that Yuri didn’t even know he was holding busts out of his lungs. He lets Otabek and Mila and Rita hug him quickly before jogging to the other finalists, and they all head up.

Once more, Yuri walks onto the stage and lines up in between Quincy and the Asuka/Euni duo. The announcer is spinning some blurb about the discipline and hard work they all showed tonight, So Yuri tunes him out until he hears the first name.

Fifth place goes to Quincy, with his thousand dollars in prize money and an invite to work with Lilia in her summer show. If he weren’t nervous, Yuri would be mildly annoyed that he might have to share a dance space with the upstart. His technique is good, but his presentation is something to be desired. 

Fourth place goes to Emily, who gets two thousand dollars and an invite to the Paris Opera Ballet’s workshop. The girl is already crying her happy tears. Clearly, she got what she wanted out of this gamble, and Yuri feels happy for her.

Third, Asuka and Euni. Five thousand to them, to split however they want, and internships with Dance Theater of Harlem. He'd be jealous if Lilia wasn’t better, and if he wasn’t worried about the next placement.

Only he and Jazzy are left, and as a traditional show of solidarity, they grab each other’s hands and huddle close. 

“Good luck,” the lanky girl whispers under the announcer’s broadcast of the prizes for second and first place. “But I think you have me beat.”

Well, that’s a surprise. “Thanks. Same to you,” he mumbles back. He’s not sure if he’s got this, even with Jazzy’s confidence. Even if he gets second, that’s an even ten thousand to put towards the operation, and that’s better than nothing at all. 

His pride wants first, though.

“And now, the winner of this year’s Sight and Sound Dance Division is…” the announcer makes a big show of opening the last envelope he has, “Yuri Plisetsky!”

Jazzy beams at him and hugs him tight, the other four finalists coming around and congratulating them both, their cheers ringing louder than the audience. An assistant comes out of the curtains and hands them all their rewards without even bothering to try and put some order to their chaos.

Fifteen thousand dollars. And a full ride into Juiliard’s dance program, if he wants it. Even holding it in his hand, it doesn’t feel real to Yuri yet.

Probably because he has to do it all again, this time with even bigger stakes. 

The dance finalists are herded back down into the auditorium, and they’re welcomed back with more applause. Yuri stumbles back into Otabek’s arms, hiding his face in his boyfriend’s shirt as he tries to calm himself. His friends are going crazy all around them, screaming and cheering and tugging on him like monkeys. Until the manager whistles through her teeth to get their attention again. 

Aaaand, once more with feeling.

“Combined Division finalists: Ruby Adams and Johnnie Blackwell with Switch Step Crew.”

Now an entire group of people move to the front of the room, the dancer in a striking red dress standing out amongst the hip hop crew and violinist in black. Yuri had watched them, and he won’t admit that they were good out loud. The girl had perfectly blended hip hop into her ballet to create some whole new type of dance. 

“Ashley Oliver with Creation Dance Team.”

That was the one act that was spoken word and dance team right? Yuri can’t remember what it was about as the fifteen or so dancers file across the room, but it had been moving. They had left the audience in tears.

“Team Noblesse.”

The team that had done a mock combat scene that was so well executed it looked like a dance. They had even looked like they were used to barely missing each other’s throats by mere inches with those sharp ass blades.

“O-DOG Dance Team.”

_ Damnit, not again, _Yuri thinks to himself. They’re either the last to be called or they didn’t make the cut. The other hip hop team moves up, and he remembers this one playing hard on nostalgia by creating a huge routine based around a popular anime show. It took damn near thirty of them, involved moving huge screens around, and a number of costume changes. They had gotten cheers just as loud as his group had. 

“Otabek Altin and Yuri Plisetsky with REPRISE and Dixie State University.”

“Oh thank God,” Yuri hears Rita mutter. He has to agree, because now his heartbeat is thundering in his ears. The applause starts up around them again, and Yuri clings to Otabek’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

Not that his boyfriend looks much better. Yuri can feel his thumb twitching, like he’s trying to avoid turning back to his old habit of cutting into his index finger. JJ has Isabella around the waist, and behind them Rita is playing with her rosin block. Aman is running his hand through his hair. The entire band is tense because they kind of know what’s at stake here. 

They’re back in the spotlights again, and Yuri refuses to let Otabek go. Rita sneaks up behind him on his other side and takes his free hand. 

He hates this waiting game.

“We did our best, Yura,” Otabek murmurs. “We don’t even need first place.”

Yuri shakes his head. They kind of do. Beka just doesn’t know it yet.

Fifth place falls to Ashley and her Creation Dance Team, who are beyond ecstatic to get funding for a new dance room.

Fourth, Team Noblesse, who get new gear. They accept the reward graciously, though it’s clear they were aiming for the money prizes of third, second, or first.

Third goes to Ruby, Johnnie, and Switch Step Crew - they walk away with fifteen thousand to split, and a full scholarship to the New York Conservatory for Dramatic Arts.

_ Again, between second and first. _ Yuri is about to implode from all of this stress. 

The announcer guy steps between the two remaining teams and does his final address to the crowd, thanking everyone for coming out and all of the major donors that allowed for all this money to be parceled around, and commending all of the talent that was showcased tonight. His final remark is to remind everyone that the party after is as much for scouting as it is for rest. Yuri will deal with that later. They need the final result_ now _.

“Once again, thank you all for coming out this evening. Finally, the winner of the Sight and Sound Combined Event is…”

_ ‘Please, please, please…’ _

“Otabek Altin and Yuri Plisetsky, with REPRISE and the Dixie State University Combined Choir!”

Chaos. Everywhere.

_ Holy fucking hell, they did it. _

Rita and Isabella and that Sara girl are all screaming at the top of their lungs and crying, and there are so many arms coming around him and Otabek that he momentarily loses his footing. Of course, Otabek catches him, but then he’s swamped too. In the end, they just go with it and let their friends push them around.

Yuri suddenly doesn’t give a damn about who is watching and dives in to kiss his boyfriend full on the mouth. “We did it. We fucking did it, Beka!”

Otabek laughs full and loud. “Yeah, we did.” And then he kisses Yuri again.

The announcer finally comes and breaks the huddle of bodies up. “Congratulations, Otabek and Yuri. Twenty-five thousand dollars, and a full scholarship into any Juilliard program you choose.” A check and certificate are passed to Otabek, who is looking a little dumbfounded.

“Did he say scholarship?” the older man asks in a daze. As if the proof isn’t in his hands. Then again, Yuri had the same feeling about a half hour ago, so he gets it, and decides to help his boor boyfriend out.

“Yep. Enough money to more than cover the cost of your mother’s surgery and any post-op expenses, and you get to start your dream.” Yuri gives him another tight hug. “You helped me reach mine, so I’m helping you reach yours.”

The look Otabek gives him is one of complete adoration. “I … God, _ thank you_, Yura.” Then he’s hugging Yuri back, and everything is just perfect.

* * *

Well, he thought it was. 

“_Dedushka_!” 

Because, yes, that’s Yuri’s grandfather standing with Lilia and Yakov and Yuuri and Viktor just inside the door to the ballroom where the afterparty is being held. He’s sure it is, because only Nikolai Plisetsky will tolerate Yuri’s flying tackle hugs without complaint. 

“Yuratchka, I am so proud of you,” his grandfather says, and finally the tears come at the pride and affection coloring the old man’s voice.

“How did you get here?” Yuri asks as soon as he gains control of his voice. “You’re supposed to be in Russia.”

Nikolai looks over Yuri’s shoulder. “Your young man brought me over, using your flatmate. He thought it would be a good idea for me to be present for your big day.”

At the mention of Otabek, Yuri turns hot as an iron, and he’s sure his face shows it. “Ah, _ Dedushka_, I-”

Otabek, the smooth fucker, just greets Nikolai like a proper gentleman, handshake and small bow and everything. “Hello, Mr. Plisetsky. I am Otabek Altin, and it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Yuri has told me so much about you.”

And yep, that’s all it takes to win his grandfather over. “You keep this one, do you hear me, Yuratchka?” he mutters under his breath before returning the greeting. “Good to meet you, Otabek. I’m sure you’ve been keeping my Yuratchka out of trouble.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Liar,” Yuri mumbles. But they don’t seem to hear him, or if they do, they just ignore him and continue chatting like old friends.

“Yuri.” Lilia’s voice comes from behind him, and when he turns to answer he’s thrown by the absolute opposite of his instructor standing next to her.

“This is Donna Mejia, the scouter here from ABT,” Lilia says with a very pointed stare that makes Yuri get with the program quick.

“Hello, Mrs. Mejia. It’s nice to meet you.” He pulls the reins on his body and forces a small bow out. The small, round, blonde woman smiles up at him from behind her wire-frame glasses.

“Hello, Yuri, and congratulations on your wins tonight. You impressed quite a few people.” She even has the exact opposite of Lilia’s voice, full of vibrant colors and emotions for such a generic introduction.

“Ah, thank you…”

“Lilia tells me you’re looking to get folded into our ranks,” she continues, completely ignoring his awkwardness. “Normally, we have applicants come and audition to show their proficiency in a number of dance genres. Your combination piece was well done, and you clearly put a lot of work into bringing it together. Come and audition in a few years. I’ll be keeping an eye out in the dance world for any other projects you put together, especially if they’re to be anything like the one you showed us tonight.”

Some other sponsor or important person catches the small woman’s attention, and she makes to leave. “Keep in touch Lilia, and don’t hoard that kid all to yourself. He’s going to be a legend.” And just like that, Donna Mejia is gone, leaving a reeling Yuri in her wake.

“She is correct, Yuri. You will become extraordinary in a very short time.” Lilia turns and looks at him. “In the meanwhile, what will you do?”

Well shit, that’s the question of the hour, now isn’t it. Yuri hadn’t even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t get into a dance troupe of his own at the end of all of this. He never entertained the idea of a partial success. So now what does he do?

Casting his eyes around the room he notes that the girl in the red dress, Ruby, is coming over. Probably to talk to Lilia. Her combination of two opposite styles was flawless, and he’s willing to bet that Lilia will happily take the girl on if she wants on that alone.

A piece of advice floats to the front of his mind, from Roger. His other choreographer has said that even after all of the hard work they had put into his combination piece, Yuri still wouldn’t be able to call himself a master of any of these new styles. And looking at Ruby and all of the other dancers milling about the room, he knows that Roger was right. He has a long way to go.

“I’m staying under you,” he says to Lilia. “I need to get better. You got me this far, now I want to go farther.”

The look that Lilia gives back to him is one of challenge. “On the condition that you will not only continue with ballet under me. By now you must understand that you need more than just that.”

“Deal.” 

“Then I will see you in the fall.”

“Yes, you will.”

Lilia turns away to address Ruby, and Yuri heads back to his family and friends. Otabek spots him first, and Yuri easily slips back under his boyfriend’s arm. 

“Oi, Katsudon. Make me a theater TA next semester. I want to yell at your kids some more.”

His flatmate spins around and stares hard at Yuri. “Any chance you won’t bug me into agreeing if I say no?”

“Nope.”

Katusdon rolls his eyes. “Fine. Besides, you have some good ideas once in a while.” He and Viktor go back to their conversation, so Yuri turns to his boyfriend.

“Guess we’re classmates next year. Although, I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to stay with him,” Yuri says as he jerks a thumb over at the older couple. “I might just kill Viktor one day.”

Otabek snickers. “Can’t have that, now can we? I actually like Yuuri, and I’m not too inclined to see him sad because you murdered his boyfriend.”

“Pity,” Yuri sighs. “The world is a better place without Viktor. So can I move in with you?”

“You never had to ask, Yura. I will always want you around.” 

“You sure about that? I’m a lot of trouble, as I’m sure you’ve heard from my dear grandfather.” Yuri sticks his tongue out at said grandfather’s back, and gets a pinch in the side for his efforts.

“Nope, he sang your praises far and wide. He loves you, Yura.” Beka drops a kiss on his forehead. “And I do, too.”

Yuri can’t stop the eye roll. “Cheesy bastard. I love you too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Every night I lie in bed_   
_The brightest colors fill my head_   
_A million dreams are keeping me awake_   
_I think of what the world could be_   
_A vision of the one I see_   
_A million dreams is all it's gonna take_   
_A million dreams for the world we're gonna make_   

> 
> * * *
> 
> An extra long chapter to round this off! And just for my own personal fun, I've used a lot of references and names of people I've met in my various dance classes before. If you'll remember the summary of the story, I ended it with "the High Strung Au/rewrite that no one asked for". Well, here's the [nod](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scChKG1E_dw) to the movie! It's actually not that bad of a concept, so go find it somewhere online if it interests you. And just in case you're wondering, O-DOG is a real dance team and I'm pretending that they did [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEDQ5rELtoU). You watch that and try to tell me that it isn't epic. Like, the coordination is astounding. Noblesse is another reference, this time to a [manhwua](https://www.webtoons.com/en/fantasy/noblesse/list?title_no=87&page=1) that has [an animated adaptation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0YtUSNbIL4). Which is a totally awesome and heart-wrenching read if you have the time for it. And of course, we can't forget about Yuri's [ballet piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIE-iOnQcK4) and his [combination piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CHXk8gZLZk).
> 
> * * *
> 
> IT'S DONE!
> 
> Oh my god, I'm finished. I couldn't have done it without you guys, your love and support throughout this monster roller coaster. I love each and every one of you who stuck with me through the beginning, all the way here to the end. This was my first ever Big Bang entry for any fandom, and I'm beyond ecstatic that you guys loved reading it as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> That being said, I don't think I'm done here. There's a whole lot more that can go on in this world, and I'm going to come back and explore it. Keep an eye out! And I'll catch you all in the fandom!
> 
> All the love in the world,  
Survivor


End file.
